


les bois du cerf

by Breakmybones (CarterReid)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Creepy Hannibal Lecter, F/M, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Misunderstandings, Murder, Possessive Behavior, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-02-10 05:01:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12904629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarterReid/pseuds/Breakmybones
Summary: Will was different, that was obvious. He dreamed of killers, darkness and flames devouring feathers - things that no normal person would ever think of. But he wasn't normal.And neither was his soul-mark.





	1. olives

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal is amazing and I wished I owned it all, but I don't - so rights to NBC, Thomas Harris and everyone else who has a hand in the creation of this world.
> 
> I bloody love this pairing, ha. 
> 
> -R.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Hannibal, so all rights must go to the amazing minds behind it: NBC, Thomas Harris and everyone else!
> 
> I will try and update as quickly as I can, but there may be a few days between chapters with this fic, so please my lovely people, don't hate me for my slowness. 
> 
> Stay cool.  
> -R.

It was not unlike an olive, Will thought. Slightly green-grey, with a red stuffing in the middle, rounded in an almost oval shape, and small. It was altogether it was a rather peculiar soul-mark, although Will had seen worse. An unfortunate incident with his hated bully of a college roommate several years earlier had seen him, bleary-eyed and caffeine deprived, stumbling into the shared bathroom and catching a glance of a baby pig on what looked like a roasting spit. Not the most beautiful of marks to carry with him. Will later found out, however, that Uriah Jackson's soulmate had been a butcher. Suddenly, it was one of life's little ironies.

The mark of Sally Thompson's wrist was only the third mark Will had seen that resembled food in some way. Although, it was somewhat difficult to truly distinguish what the hell the mark was supposed to be given the bloody, ragged remains left behind for him to peer through. A meat grinder would have done less damage, he thought. It was only due to the sheer  _resilience_ of marks that even a faint outline, with it's unflattering blobs of green-grey-red colour, had survived. Similarly, a Mister Robert M. Thompson, of Apartment 3D, was mutilated in the same, disturbing way. Wrist all but hacked off, eyes pulled from his head and body dumped in the communal garden at the back of their apartment block. Overall it was a rather unsettling crime scene and, for Will at least, an unpleasant reminder of his disassociating self before the encephalitis diagnosis. The mind of the killer was sticky. Like black, ropy tentacles reaching out from the dark and trying to wrap themselves around his mind. It was only the aspirin he crunched under his teeth, the antibiotics still swimming in his system and the mandatory four week recovery period that had kept the creature at bay. But even so Will couldn't help but be wary: after all, his previous case had seen him shouting at his superior on a crime scene, storming off said crime scene and disappearing to the Emergency Room because _"Goddamn it Jack, there's something wrong with me - I need a brain scan!"_. It was safe to say that Jack had been reluctant to bring him on board, but with three pairs of bodies in as many weeks, no leads and increasing public pressure, he had been all but forced too. 

At least Will had gotten a free cup of coffee out of it. 

According to the initial profile and Freddie Lounds' crude ramblings, the killer was a male, probably white, mid to late 40s, suffering from a traumatic event in his love life, most likely related to his soulmate, that had sent him on a downward spiral to blood soaked sheets, gouged eyes and the carving up of marks. About  _half_ was right. 

Male, yes. But he was young, ambitious, with a point to prove. Driven not by trauma, but by something else - an eager, desperate sort of thing that refused to form in his mind, a emotion that Will hadn't himself experienced. It was definitely to do with his soulmate. The killer had met them or wanted to meet them: the sensation burned him from the inside out. He craved them unlike anything he'd wanted before. And Will could tell he'd wanted a  _lot_. But the rest was a muddled blur, which Will couldn't attribute to his lack of practice, the drugs he was on, or the general complexity of the murder. What he did know, however, as he opened his eyes with a deep, shuddering breath and returned to the moment, was that Jack was not going to take 'I don't know' as an answer. 

The profiler sighed heavily and dragged a hand wearily through his messy curls. He really ought to cut them, he thought. Although at his previous suggestion, Beverley had protested so vehemently, he wondered just why she cared to much. Although, if he was honest with himself, they provided a layer of protection he wasn't really ready to relinquish. 

"So," Jack prompted, striding closer, gloved hands dug deep into his pockets and breath swirling about his face.

"So," Will parroted, fiddling with his glasses, "he's motivated. He's not going to stop, Jack."

"I could have told you that," the Agent snorted, as abrasive as the sharp, early morning air around them. 

"No, he  _can't_ stop. He has to prove himself, to prove he knows what he's doing."

"To who?"

"I don't know," Will huffed, shrugging. "Ask him."

Jack didn't particularly like that answer, his eyes narrowing sharply and mouth opening, no doubt to rebuke Will for his attitude, but Zeller cut in with a shout over.  _Evidence_ , apparently, although Will didn't linger long enough to see just what evidence they had found, instead making his way past the lines of tape and out towards the car. It still felt too soon to be back in the field.

A familiar red-head stole into his peripheral vision, but he dodged the dogged and ruthless reporter clearly foaming at the mouth for a line from  _Will Graham, insane man_ , on the killer they called the 'Mark Mutilator' - a tasteless and crude devaluation of just what the murderer did. After all he didn't mutilate, he  _decimated_ the marks on his victim's wrists. Such an act was, probably, one of the worse crimes imaginable, along with forging a mark and pretending to be a match to someone. The latter, unfortunately, was a relatively new problem, arising with the change from conservative views on marks - where one had to keep the intimate representation of themselves covered - to the more liberal, millennial approach. As with bare wrists, celebrities were prone to people counterfeiting their marks and claiming to be their mates. Many a law suit of 'emotion-distress' had followed, until the official criminalisation several months later. 

It wasn't that killing soulmates was rare - in fact it was quite common - but it was the act of destroying the mark that made their guy so different. 

Although, Will thought snidely, he wouldn't mind someone destroying his. 

While many had minimalist designs with bold, bright colours and beautiful lines, his was sinister. He knew his mark was why his mother had left, her parting words to his father:  _"I did my best but that boy has the devil in him"_   in that deep Louisiana twang echoing in their small, ratty living room, before the slam of the front door and the rev of their beat up jeep took its place. Will was grateful his father cared enough for him to ignore the violence on his skin. Many times he had wondered how different he might be if he wasn't branded, shamed,  _defined_ , by the lines on the inside of his left wrist. Anyone who caught a glimpse of his mark would gasp, their eyes widening almost comically and their hands fluttering before resting over their mouths, stunned and speechless by the abnormality of it all. He was eight when his father sat him down, wrapped a thick, leather band around his wrist, looked him in the eye and said: " _Now Will, you don't take this off for no one_."

And he hadn't. 

It wasn't so rare to have a covered mark. Many people did. Conservatives, staunch in the belief that it was a private, intimate thing not to be flaunted in public. Hippy's, convinced that their love life was their choice that shouldn't be defined by, what they described as, a birthmark, especially given the small chance of actually meeting one's soulmate. Widows and widowers, whose marks had turned that sad, charcoal grey that told of the death of their soulmate. And, finally, the unmarked: that small, rare population that were not born with anything on their skin. To anyone who asked Will, he would simply reply that he fell into the first category, or, an bad days, he would say his soulmate was dead. Both were much more palatable than the truth. 

Sometimes he caught himself thinking of the person destined to be his one. Who had Fate decided was perfect for him? Were they as abnormal as he was? Were they troubled? Or were the lines on his skin a reflection of his inner turmoil, of his inner darkness? Or was he like Uriah Jackson? - branded with one of life's ironies...

A cough broke his thoughts.

 _Bev_. 

"Chief's got a lead," she announced with little fanfare. "He wants you to go with."

"Fine." There was a pause. 

"You alright? You look pale," she fussed, eyebrows furrowing together. 

"'m fine," Will repeated, reaching into his pocket to run his thumb over the bottle of aspirin there. Only another three and a half hours until he could take another dose, he thought. Although he could probably get away with three. 

"You don't look fine," Bev pushed, before sighing and dropping it. "You're going to interview some psychiatrist, he was treating the wife. We found his card in the apartment."

"Great."

The black-haired women turned, only to pause and glance back. "You know, you shouldn't let him bully you into coming back early," she said. "You need to time to rest, Will. Promise me you won't come in when he calls you next time, not if you aren't..." she trailed off, suddenly flustered.

"All there?" Will finished, lips turning up into a smile. Beverly looked conflicted, but the profiler only laughed softly. "Thanks Bev," he said with a bob of his head. 

"Take care of yourself Will," she offered, before trudging back towards the garden. 

The profiler breathed in deeply, ignoring the faint burn on his wrist, and pulled out the bottle. He cracked the lid almost eagerly, ignoring the judgemental looks shot his way and the lingering gaze on his bound wrist. He huffed, narrowing his eyes, and tossed two tablets into his palm before throwing them back with little hesitation. 

Because why not? After all, he had no intention of seeing any sort of psychiatrist, for work or not, without being one hundred percent, thoroughly numb.

"Will," Jack barked, striding towards him and ushering him into the front seat, a sense of purpose about him now that the profiler knew would spell trouble for his recently healed mind. Part of him wished he had been strong enough to turn Jack down. But there was nothing he could do now, he thought, casting his gaze out of the window as they backed away. Instead, he just sighed, ignored the itch starting underneath his leather band, and pretended he was anywhere else.


	2. lion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Hannibal, so all rights must go to the amazing minds behind it: NBC, Thomas Harris and everyone else!
> 
> I will try and update as quickly as I can, but there may be a few days between chapters with this fic, so please my lovely people, don't hate me for my slowness.
> 
> Hannibal joins the party...
> 
> -R.

Hannibal Lecter was bored. 

There was only so many times one could endure the ramblings of a weak-willed mind before the overwhelming temptation to obliterate said mind took over; and currently, Franklyn Froideveaux was doing just that. Neurotic patients never really tried him - they were some of the most interesting after all. The ones who, with a word here, a manipulation there, broke in the most spectacular of ways. They were the most fun. Yet the neurotic individual across from him tried more than just his patience, but his manners too. Because the portly, sweaty  _mess-of-a-man_  would be better as braised cheeks than the foil in stimulating conversation. Yet, while Hannibal did eat the rude, he also ate the relatively healthy: it would not do well to have tainted meat, and Franklyn, between his cheese obsession, heavy breathing and rounded stomach, was a far cry from Hannibal's usual _guest_ _to the table_. It was rather ironic that the snivelling creature before him should wear the faint face of a lion as his mark, one he boldly waved around him. He had even had the audacity to ask about Hannibal's mark: as though the smart, plush leather cuff around his wrist was not a declaration that such a question should never be asked. Such a inquiry, were he less self-controlled, would have seen Franklyn butchered so thoroughly that not even the crows would be able to pick anything from the ragged remains of his carcass. His mark was his own business: although Hannibal might be indulgent enough to say he was hypocritical, frequently spying the marks of those around him, his unhealthy fascination with the adornments having persisted from early childhood. 

Franklyn was wiping his nose on his sleeve - and his hand, and the tissues Hannibal offered, and the arm of the chair he sat in - and the doctor ground his teeth. He clenched his hands into tight, unforgiving fists, using every self-preservation instinct and etiquette lesson he had received to stop him from breaching the space between them and snapping the man's neck. He checked the watch on his wrist as his patient blew his nose again. Another eighteen minutes.  _He was not paid enough for this_. This wasn't even fun - watching this pitiful human weep was simply mind-numbing.   

The knock on the heavy wood of his door could not have come at a more opportune moment. He was so relieved for the break, in fact, that he barely begrudged the intruder for the normally unforgivable rudeness. With a sharp, placating smile at his suddenly wide eyed patient, the doctor rose quickly and revealed with little fanfare a thick-set black man and a shifty, curly haired creature hiding beneath plaid and thick rimmed glasses. 

Hannibal was sure his heart stalled in his chest.

It did not take much to recognise Will Graham - his guilty pleasure and the man he had more than a small obsession with - but it took all of his self control not to stride up to the man, put his nose to the profiler's neck and _inhale_. He shuttered his reactions knowing that one wrong move, one incorrect response and the incredible mind of Will Graham would be able to see him. And wasn't that _thrilling_ \- terrifying, of course, but exhilarating in equal measure. After raking his eyes over both, he turned to the man who was clearly in charge and, if memory served him, had been named as Special Agent Jack Crawford by Freddie Lounds in Tattlecrime.com.   

Hannibal was not fond of saying he was a fan of Freddie Lounds: her work was brash, crude and rather impolite, but nevertheless he found himself drawn to the rag of a newspaper like a moth entranced by the flame. Will Graham -  _who caught insane men because he could think like them -_ was frequently found on the pages of Hannibal's favourite paper. The man was as complex as he was beautiful and the doctor had spent many an evening tracing his features with graphite and imposing the curly-haired man into his most treasured masterpieces. Although one could only draw Will into the  _Primavera_  before his longing grew uncontrollable and his desire barely whet by rereading articles. Were he his own patient, he would have used words like 'fixation', 'obsession' and 'delusional', but somehow, the pull he felt for the curly-haired man was too complex to be fit comfortably into those categories. 

"Dr Lecter?" the other man -  _Jack_ - began, tentatively offering a smile and stepping forward. 

"May I help you?" Hannibal asked, head tilting to the side in what he hoped depicted curiosity rather than aggression. "I am currently with a patient."

"Apologies," he grimaced, not really sorry at all, but pretending to be. "I'm Agent Jack Crawford, with the FBI, and this is my colleague, Will Graham."

It was only after the initial introduction that something akin to worry flared deep inside his chest. Because in his haze, Hannibal had not considered just  _why_ the beautiful empathetic man was stood in his waiting room. He opened his mouth to speak again when Franklyn, intrigued, moved over to the door and nudged his way through: never one to miss out on anything. A slight flare of his nostrils broke through the impassive mask Hannibal usually wore and from the sudden stabbing gaze of Will, it had been noticed. The blue, ocean-coloured orbs made his breath hitch slightly and the monster beneath his skin tremble with want. There was something dancing on his skin, a muffled frenzy that made the mark on his wrist burn harshly. 

Because Will Graham was shrouded in darkness, too, and it was even more beautiful in real life than through the gaudy bold font of Tattlecrime.com. 

It rolled over him, off him, around him, like a cloak, smothering those closest to him. It was addictive, entrancing. Hannibal was more than a little in love. The man before him was beautiful - body _and_ mind - with an opportunity to know him like no one ever had, could, or, he thought, would. Not even his soulmate, the one Fate decided was just for him, could possibly understand the complexities of Hannibal like the lithe, blue-eyed lecturer standing begrudgingly between furniture that probably cost more than his car.

"Are you here to arrest Dr. Lecter?" Franklyn asked, flabbergasted, eyes darting from one man to the next. 

"No, no, of course not," Jack placated with a smile, slightly taken aback. "And we're sorry for the intrusion. We just came to ask some questions, that's all." He smiled again, but this time directed it to Hannibal. 

"You may wait until we have finished our session," he offered, because no matter his desire to get away from Franklyn, he couldn't very well act without any sense of propriety.

"Of course, doctor, thank you," Jack replied as Hannibal ushered his patient inside, dragged his gaze over Will quickly, before nodding once and shutting the door. 

He counted the seconds. 

His mind turned over and over the image of Will, his curls, blue-eyes, scruff, the bedraggled appearance... he barely even noticed his mouth moving, offering Franklyn advise, consoling him, convincing him there was no conspiracy because the FBI had showed up at his door, that he was _safe_. Safe? - an amusing construct given just where he sat,  _who_ he sat across from. Normally he might be slightly amused by such a sentiment, but now he was simply impatient - every thrum of his heart urging him up and over to the door.

Another deflection - _cheese? Why was this creature speaking of cheese?_ \- and Hannibal's frustration welled in his chest. He knew Franklyn hoped to possess him, to know him, to  _befriend_ him, as though Hannibal could be confined by such constructs, or by such a man. He wasn't sure if the  _need_ that his patient felt for him transcended into the sexual: whether Mr Froideveaux teased himself with thoughts of Hannibal, or let his lips utter soft moans, shaping his name as he writhed in his bed, alone and desperate for _more_. What he did know, however, was that Franklyn's need was clouding his therapy and that soon, if Hannibal didn't kill him, the man would need a referral. There was no room for such obsessive tendencies from creatures as lowly as Franklyn.

By some miracle, he managed to see out the session. Finally heaving a slightly longer sigh as the clock ticked over and his hour ended. "Thank you Franklyn," he said, rising and escorting the man to the door, eagerly bearing the two waiting profilers. "The same time next week then," he offered, watching him leave before turning back to Jack, who was already crowding closer, to shake his hand, perhaps, or to ensure he would not be made to wait again.

Will was slower to react, but nevertheless entered the room too, offering Hannibal a half-taste of the most delectable scent he had ever beheld as he passed. The doctor shut the door, ignoring the slight tremor trying to take home in his hands - no doubt a reaction to being near the object of his obsession. 

"So, gentlemen," he began, gesturing to the seats, "how can I be of assistance to the FBI?"

"Thank you Doctor," Jack began, politely sitting and draping his coat over his lap. Will, however, remained standing. "We are investigating the murder of a couple, Mr and Mrs Thompson."

"Sally Thompson?" Hannibal asked, one eyebrow raising slightly before breathing out sharply - forever the actor. "I see now why you are here," he murmured, "she was a former patient." He paused. "You know I cannot speak of her directly - patient confidentiality, you understand."

"Of course, of course," Jack replied, batting away the notion. "If you can, doctor, did Mrs Thompson have an enemies. Did she speak of anyone who had threatened her? I don't need specifics, but perhaps if there was someone -"

"You know he doesn't work like that, Jack," Will chimed in, frustrated. He sounded tired, accent dragging over the words, but his eyes never wavered from the window they looked out of. "He doesn't know them intimately, they're just a means to an end."

"They provide him with purpose?" Hannibal guessed, pinning his gaze and attention to the profiler.

"No," Will corrected, "they help him create, they paint his image."

"Canvas for a tortured artist," he mocked. Will turned then. And his eyes  _burned_ into Hannibal's. 

" _Yes_ ," he hissed, startled, confused, but intrigued.  Desperately so.

"Doctor Lecter," Jack jumped in, something clearly turning in his mind. "This killer, he's already been on somewhat of a spree. You may not have seen the news recently, but they're calling him the Mark Mutilator, he's incredibly dangerous..." There was a pause. "You seem to be quite an insightful person and, well, from what I've just seen, you can work with Will," he huffed out a laugh, although Hannibal found the remark far from amusing. Jack sobered. "The truth is, I think we need someone like you on-board, helping with the profile."

"Jack -" Will protested at the same time as Hannibal exclaimed:

" _Pardon me_?!"

"I had an ulterior motive, coming here. You see, I'd heard about you before, from Alana Bloom - you mentored her at Hopkins? When we found your card, well, two birds and one stone, I suppose," Jack continued, shooting Will daggers. "Will, too, could use a steady influence."

" **Jack** ," Will snapped, eyes ablaze and cheeks flushed. 

 _God, he was beautiful_. 

"Will -"

"No," he barked, "you don't, don't ever -" he hissed, struggling to find the right words to convey the extent of his anger. 

"I would be more than happy to assist on the profile, Agent Crawford," Hannibal cut in, "however, I believe Special Agent Graham is more than capable of determining whom he wishes to influence him. Not to mention it would be incredibly difficult to become friends if he suspected I had another motive." He tossed Will a small smile - one that old friends might use when sharing an in joke. It took a beat, but something shy and hesitant was returned, although it was clouded by sheer surprise. 

"Excellent," Jack nodded, although he was clearly unhappy with the restraint on Hannibal's part. 

But the doctor had no thoughts for Jack - for all his were captivated by the blue-eyed monster-hunter who's gaze, now finally having landed on Hannibal, refused to go anywhere else. 


	3. compass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Hannibal, so all rights must go to the amazing minds behind it: NBC, Thomas Harris and everyone else!
> 
> I will try and update as quickly as I can, but there may be a few days between chapters with this fic, so please my lovely people, don't hate me for my slowness.
> 
> Happy Christmas everyone - hope people have epic days!
> 
> -R.

It was several weeks before Will saw Hannibal again. It was just enough time for a confusing mix of heady anticipation and nervousness to take root in his stomach; because despite the distraction of life, teaching and the ever looming, incredibly ominous Mark Mutilator, Will found himself thinking of the dark haired foreigner much more often than he wished to. It was unconscious in a way, but also a vicious circle of being forced to think of him purely because he kept reminding himself  _not_ to. Luckily for Will - although not so lucky for the dead people - the Mark Mutilator had struck not once, but twice, obliterating and butchering two more pairs and throwing them out onto their garden lawns like the leftovers from the evening meal. It meant that he quickly became too busy to dwell frequently on Hannibal. Yet, as they were still no closer to catching the killer, Will knew their reunion would be soon. 

The killer's display had become more elaborate. The first murders had been simple: death, mutilation (post-mortem, of course) and then they were thrown on the garden. The first pair he had murdered since the couple with their olive-marks had seen some attempt at staging. Hastily and clumsily erected as though praying, it was too crude to be something beautiful, or even meaningful. The second pair, however, were much clearer. They had been obviously staged: not exactly praying, but not quite bowing. It was a combination of the two - their palms, arms and wrists (or what was left of them) were facing upwards with their foreheads to the ground. It showed a progression that chilled Will to the bone. After all, it was dangerous for a killer to change in such a way. To evolve meant they would be more difficult to catch, and Jack would work each and every one of them to the bone before he let the Mutilator to slip through their clutches - even if it was because of something as drastic as a change in his _modus operandi_.  

It was a day much like any other, _that_ day. Will woke to his alarm; fed, watered and walked his dogs; driven into work; drunk three cups of coffee between arriving and finishing his lecture; he'd been half watching the rain when Jack's latest hopeful trainee found him. The girl half smiled, trying to be considerate, but clearly too scared shitless of Jack to be polite _enough_.  

Hannibal was lingering in Jack's office, admiring the papers and leads pinned to the cork-board to one side, but immediately turned at the sight of him. Jack didn't. Jack just glanced up with a huff that spoke volumes of how much he  _hated_ Will being late. Normally Will would have snapped something back but having watched the bright colours of Jack's ornate compass turn grey as Bella slowly succumbed to the disease ravaging her body over the past few weeks, he found himself unable to - especially as the mark was looking particularly dulled that morning. There was nothing more unsettling than watching colour drain from a mark. Will had also noticed his boss scratching the mark absentmindedly, as though it stung - another bad sign. 

"You remember Dr Lecter," Jack was saying by way of introduction. 

"Of course," Will replied. Although the words:  _how could I forget_ him _\- with those eyes, that voice and an insight as sharp as mine?_ echoed around his brain, bouncing off the bone.

 _"_ It's a pleasure to see you again, Agent Graham," the psychiatrist said, lips tilted into a smile that was far too seductive for Will. It made his stomach twist - although he couldn't be sure if it was pleasantly or in warning. There was a danger there too.

Will grunted. There was nothing else to say - or do - without loosing his mind. There had never been a person who had seen what he saw before and he wasn't sure if it was irony or cruelty that such a person should be the profession he hated most in the world. 

"Doctor Lecter has something to contribute to the profile," Jack continued, gesturing for Hannibal to speak. 

"I had a few thoughts, yes," the man admitted. "The most recent victims replicated those immediately preceding them -"

 _He had to correct his mistake_ , Will thought, tuning out the accented voice and drifting off into his own mind. The killer was meticulous and the couple: an Oliver Zachary and Penelope Underwood, had been imperfect. Something had interrupted him. Something had stopped him from doing whatever it was he  _had_ to do - they had forced him to change his plan. He hadn't been able to position them properly. So, Colin and Toby Jones had been his way of correcting that mistake. Will had seen that - although he still couldn't pin point exactly the emotions and motives behind the man - he had seen. 

"- and it seems that there was something special about Oliver Zachary or Penelope Underwood that he wished to recreate. The direction and depth of the cuts, of course, shows greater precision on the second set of victims..." Will tuned out again, eyes drifting over to the board and he stepped away.

His eyes went over to the images, a hand coming instinctively to drag through his hair and then to thumb at his eyes. The nights had been long - too long it seemed if the growing blackness under his eyes were any indication. But he had reached the stage where coffee could offer little assistance. Only sleep would help him now.

"What do you see Will?" a voice asked from over his shoulder. He would have jumped, but somehow the warmth from Hannibal's side was too soothing to be distressing.

"Correction," he murmured absentmindedly, not bothering to clarify or tailor his responses. "Change."

"Will..." It was Jack, exasperated; vague answers never really sitting well with the Guru. Sometimes Will wondered if Jack thought he had a crystal ball: that he could look at a crime scene and be able to provide a name, age and blood type for the killer who had produced it. Or, that Will knew who and where the killers were, but simply refrained from sharing the information. Jack's inability to compromise frustrated Will to no end, especially when it implicated him as a villain  

"A mistake rewritten?" Hannibal asked, warm breath huffed out against the back of Will's neck. A buzzing spread through him - an undercurrent of something he couldn't quite put his finger on. 

"Yeah," he agreed, swallowing heavily, the room feeling infinitely too small. 

Hannibal hummed softly, stepping  _closer_. "What does he want?"

"I don't - I-I," Will shook his head, squeezing his eyes closed tightly, senses filling with Hannibal in a dizzying sort of way. The man, he realised, smelt of expensive aftershave, clean linen sheets and what Will could only think of as smoky ash-wood. It was intoxicating. He took a steadying breath in through his mouth, ignoring the slight widening of Hannibal's eyes that told Will the doctor knew of his impact upon him. "It's not clear," Will finally muttered, frustration colouring his tone. "I can't just  _know_...he's too random, too fragmented, too -" The eagerness was still there and the symbolism too, but it was difficult to trying piece together just what there was supposed to be. The symbolism could mean soulmate, in fact it most likely did, especially as - 

_Or not._

" **Shit** ," Will gasped. "He's courting his soulmate," he continued. 

"Excuse me?" Jack spluttered. 

"He thinks he's found his Soulmate," Will continued, "but he's not sure the marks match. So, he's trying to prove that marks are irrelevant. That soulmate couples that do match aren't all they're cut out to be. They'll be something wrong in each relationship, there has to be. Perhaps that's why Zachary and Underwood were imperfect - because they were perfect?" The profiler paused, turning to his supervisor. "That's got to be it, there isn't any other explanation that would fit, Jack."

" _Stunning boy._ " Hannibal whispered it so quietly, Will was sure it wasn't meant for even his ears, but something pleasant burnt through him and the blush that overtook him was all-consuming.

"He's courting with bodies?" Jack pressed, rising from his desk and squaring his shoulders. "Why? Who would _want_ to be courted with bodies?"

Will's euphoria dimmed in an instant as the limitations of his half-assumption came into focus. "I don't know," he replied, weary again - dejected, as he often was around Jack. A hand on the small of his back grounded him, the press of harsh leather from the band wrapped around Hannibal's left wrist dug into his flesh ever-so-slightly.

"Never fear darling boy, we will catch this monster yet," he offered, tone hushed and more suited for the bedroom than an office.

A look of bewilderment crossed Will's face and he turned, looking up from beneath his curls. Neither had stepped away and the blue-eyed man wondered what the hell the whole thing was: what the press of Lecter's hand, which had shifted slightly to his hip, meant and whether the intense smouldering gaze pinned to his face was as suggestive as he thought it was. His cheeks were burning red-hot when he finally stepped away, dumbfounded at Jack's ignorance - his own gaze focused on the papers on his desk.

"I'll have Zeller look into the couples, but there's been nothing so far," Jack was saying.

"That doesn't mean there isn't Jack," Will said, desperately trying to keep his reactions under control, although the proximity and intensity of his companion was making it difficult to do so. 

It was more than just his looks. If Will had to use words to describe Hannibal aesthetically, he would use words like regal, composed and handsome. After all, with short, neat dark hair, with streaks of grey that on any other person would make them look old, but it just made  _him_ all the more sophisticated. His face could not have been more symmetrical if it tried, the high cheekbones adding that air of aristocracy to the man. His dark eyes - a cross between some enchanting brown and a maroon colour that, in the right light, glinted like blood. And even though the man was clean shaven, he could picture in his mind just how rugged the doctor would look with a day or two's stubble adorning his features. It was an image that quickly evolved into the man sitting on his porch, barefoot wearing a loose shirt, jeans, ruffled hair and holding a beer in his hand, while Will's dogs lay at his feet. Domestic imagery like that scared Will - as he had never before considered such a thing. After all, he was the man who imagined killing people - who would have him?

A knock at the door broke his thoughts.

Bev. 

It was clear the instant she stepped over the threshold that she was not like Jack. She  _saw_. She saw everything from the close proximity between the pair to the high flush still in Will's cheeks.

"Jack," she began, handing over a file, before openly -  _brashly_ \- looking Hannibal up and down. She turned to Will with a smirk, lips stretching across her face so tightly, the profiler feared she might hurt herself, but the humour in her eyes and the suggestive undertone of her body language spoke volumes. Will only blushed harder, but Hannibal seemed to reset himself, withdrawing and setting his body back into the rigid, professional stance that felt too hostile on a person of his size, stature and intellect. Clearly he wasn't happy with other people seeing him drape himself over Will. 

"Is this right?" Jack asked, having flicked through the files. 

"Yup," Beverley said. "We double checked with receipts and bank records after we found some irregularities. Robert Thompson had a bit of a problem with the ladies."

"Ladies?" Will asked, eyebrow climbing into his hairline.

"Prostitutes," Bev corrected. 

"It seems Special Agent Graham was correct," Hannibal said, something akin to pride colouring his tone. As though Will's achievements were  _his_. It was endearing, but also strange: weird-strange, because he'd met the guy once before then. Only once and already the man was acting like they were lovers - or friends at least.

"Have you checked the others?"

"Triple checking everyone now - no joy so far, but we'll, uh, keep looking..." Bev trailed off, eyes flicking over to the two of them again, almost as though she wasn't aware she was doing it.

Jack followed her gaze. "Oh, Dr Lecter, this is Beverley Katz, one of the best techs we have here," he introduced. 

"Pleasure," Hannibal greeted, extending a hand. Bev took it with a grin, missing the way the man's eyes flickered down to glance at the mark that lay on the inside of her wrist: an arrow ornamented with swirls - a grey arrow. Bev's Soulmate had died in childhood, or so she had told Will one evening after three shots and two beers. But she wore her mark open anyway. 

"Doctor Lecter's helping with the profile," Jack continued. 

"Uh-huh," she smirked again before digging her hands into her pockets and rocking back on her heels. "Well I suppose I better get back to it," she said eventually, jerking a thumb over her shoulder and backing out of the room. 

"I have a lecture," Will stated as he watched the woman disappear from sight - although not before a wink was tossed his way. The curly-haired man moved towards his bag and slung it over his shoulder, threading his coat through the strap too. 

"Will," Hannibal said politely. "Perhaps we might see each other soon?" he began with a small smile. He glanced once at Jack and let it turn into a smirk. "Clearly with a hearty discussion, we might uncover more truths about this Mutilator. Perhaps this evening, for dinner."

"Dinner?" Will echoed stupidly. 

"For the profile, of course," Hannibal replied, the picture of innocence. 

"Of course."

"Seven, then?" He asked, reaching into his pocket and producing a neatly printed business card. 

"Seven," Will agreed numbly, ignoring how the man's thumb brushed over his fingers when he reached out to take the offering. He tried to forget about it, but he'd be lying if he said the sensation didn't tingle for the rest of the day.


	4. rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Hannibal, so all rights must go to the amazing minds behind it: NBC, Thomas Harris and everyone else!
> 
> I will try and update as quickly as I can, but there may be a few days between chapters with this fic, so please my lovely people, don't hate me for my slowness.
> 
> I hope everyone had a great Christmas - and has a happy New Year! Thank god that 2017 is over, right? 
> 
> Let's hope we all have a kick-ass 2018!
> 
> -R.

Hannibal was putting the final touches to his Will inspired Creole Seafood Jambalaya when the rap of knuckles sounded on the door. He had opted for something simple, with a twist of his own of course, to encourage Will's association between his home in Louisiana and Hannibal. It would make their transition from acquaintances to lovers that much smoother. And oh, how Hannibal longed for such a shift - a desire that had only grown stronger with each passing moment in the profiler's company. It was strange, now, having longed for the man from afar, to be within his company. 

Gently setting his utensils aside, he straightened his suit vest and practically ran to the door, trying not to betray his eagerness by hesitating a moment before opening it. 

... _Alana_?

"Hannibal," she greeted warmly, a smile pulled across her face as she passed over a bottle of wine and moved past him into the house before he could stop her. Something akin to panic shot through him; although he wasn't sure whether it was because of the possibility of having double booked his evening, Alana being present when Will arrived or evicting her without any rudeness. It seemed he was doomed. "Oh, something smells  _delicious_ ," she enthused with a wide smile, striding into the kitchen. 

"Thank you," Hannibal replied, not sure what else to say - although the look on his face was apparently not as well hidden as it usually was because something crossed her features. 

"I hope I'm not interrupting," she blushed, "with my impromptu visit."

 _Interrupting?_ the monster beneath his skin roared, more than willing - and eager - to tell Alana just what she was interrupting, and how his plans for ushering his darling William into his bed were quickly dwindling in her presence. But he hesitated and adjusted his person suit, because he knew the woman before him - and her motivations for barging into his life.  _Jealousy_. It was an emotion he had never experienced himself before - at least not until he first laid eyes on the stunning countenance of one Special Agent Graham - but saw frequently on the faces of those around him. For most of his life, abroad and in the States, he had watched women, and men, twist themselves into knots through simpering, eye-lash batting and high-pitch laughing. It was bizarre, in a way, especially when some of them had been on the arms of their soulmates, the matching marks sitting side by side. He hadn't yet been in a place where people hadn't intended to seduce him and Alana had been no exception. 

As her mentor at Hopkins, Hannibal had watched her respect and admiration turn into a desire he was all too familiar with. She had simpered, as they all did, and smiled, flicking her hair forwards and backwards and each which way she could. It quickly became annoying, because unlike his other other admirers, he couldn't really escape the woman. It had gotten to the point where Alana had even taken the leather band off her wrist and had practically waved it underneath his nose. It was, of course, no where near a match for his own, but - much like all the others - she didn't seem to care.  He had never, though, hated her. 

Until she had mentioned Will. 

It had been something off-hand over an apparently mandatory coffee, several weeks previously, before he had even met the man, that had set him off, his blood boiling beneath his skin. Something about  _attraction_ and a _kiss_ , or an  _almost-kiss_ , no doubt a plan to enrage Hannibal or to encourage jealousy within him. It had worked, although clearly not in the way she hoped. According to her, he had itched to pursue her romantically - as a buffer, maybe, between Jack and he, or maybe through sheer attraction - until he had seen the mark on her left wrist: a delicate, but thorny, rose. Minimalist in design, as many were, and in the bold colours associated with marks. He said he'd not been a match. He said it wouldn't be fair.  _Apparently_. Hannibal, however, had been unable to move past the assumption that Alana could have Will for herself - because that man was his, and his alone. 

Even if Will didn't know it yet. 

A second rap on knuckles on wood broke his thoughts.  _Will_.  Pleasure buzzed through him and something warm filled his chest. He was out of the kitchen before he could properly register the look of surprise on Alana's face, or her confusion. He didn't even attempt to stop himself, wrenching the door open and revealing the curly-haired profiler dressed in what appeared to be the best shirt and jacket he owned with a freshly pressed pair of slacks. He was beautiful. 

"Will," Hannibal greeted, smile breaking across his lips. 

"I'm a bit early," he apologised, meeting Hannibal's gaze instantly. 

"Not at all," he replied, opening his mouth to continue and explain about -

" _Will_?" Alana asked from over his shoulder, moving forward. "Will is that you?"

"Alana," Will muttered, confusion colouring his tone. He shot Hannibal a glance but the man was too busy ushering the profiler inside - save he leave - and shutting the door firmly behind him. 

"I didn't know you were coming," she continued and Hannibal bit back the sharp reply about her unwelcome invasion. 

"Uh, me too," the blue-eyed man shot back. Alana frowned again before shrugging and turning on her heel, striding back into Hannibal's kitchen. Immediately Will turned to him. He looked distinctly unimpressed, all neutrality vanishing in an instant. "Are you together?" he asked, a little too sharply. It made the European's heart sing. 

"Absolutely not," he retorted with as much emphasis as he could, carefully slipping Will's jacket from his shoulders. The blush that rose up his neck did funny things to Hannibal's stomach. 

There was a look of relief, before confusion and then worry replaced it. "Are you, uh, trying to  _set-me-up_?"

Hannibal choked on his breath. "With Alana?" he snorted. "Absolutely not," he repeated, the words punching through the quiet of the hallway.

"Oh, okay," Will murmured, blush tinting his cheeks. 

"Darling boy," Hannibal began bluntly, a hand at the small of his back, "if she had not arrived, uninvited, I would have already begun leading you to my bed."

Will turned sharply, eyes narrowing. "That's presumptuous of you."

"You have a gift. You see what people feel," he raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting you didn't see what  _I_ felt?"

Will swallowed heavily. "You're a complicated one," he finally replied, his voice low and breathy. 

"But you presumed."

"I saw enough to think it a, uh, a  _possibility_." 

"One you were going to embrace," Hannibal retorted, smug. 

"There's something about you," he muttered, his confession seemingly both nervous and guilt-ridden - although the older man didn't want to dwell on why those two emotions were bleeding through, because  _yes_ , Will would be his. All his. If only that infuriating woman in the kitchen would take the hint.  

Alana was waiting when they entered, eyes narrowing slightly at the possessive stance Hannibal had adopted, tracking each sweep of his eyes, the dip of his hand against Will's back and the blush that crawled across every inch of Will's skin. The air was charged, both men wound tightly with enough anticipation, that not even Alana, with her delusions of happiness with Hannibal, could deny that they were building towards something that very much excluded her. In fact, it must have been obvious given the less than subtle way Alana dropped her gaze to glance at the wrists of each of them, as if expecting to see a matching set. Her own rose was very much on display and clearly the pair of leather bound wrists was _not_ what she had been expecting.

"I didn't know you two were... _working_ together," Alana broached eventually, sipping a glass of wine that Hannibal most certainly  **not** poured for her. The rage simmering underneath his skin was eased by the heat of Will' hand ghosting over his own.

"It's quite recent," Hannibal retorted smoothly, smile genial but tone dripping in innuendo. Will blushed again, dipping his gaze and nervously fidgeting from foot to foot.

"Right," Alana muttered, still not leaving. There was a pause before she smiled brightly, masking her discomfort. "What  _is_ cooking Hannibal? It smells divine."

"Seafood Jambalaya," he replied cordially. There was a sharp intake of breath from beside him. 

"You made me Jambalaya?" he asked quietly, voice laced with surprise and gratitude and a touch of heat. 

Hannibal smiled beautifully. "I thought it might remind you of home," he offered, lust beginning to boil over at the look of awe in the younger man's eyes.

It was only when the woman still in the kitchen cleared her throat that they realised they had been staring into each other's eyes. Will blushed and looked away, fiddling with his glasses, appearing as though he would be content to let the ground open up and swallow him whole. But then Alana said the words Hannibal had been eagerly awaiting since she had appeared. "I've, um, just realised, I already had plans," she muttered. 

Hannibal tore his eyes away from the stunning creature before him and offered a frown. "Ah, such a shame." Will barely suppressed a snort, but the European was too focused on ushering Alana from the room, the house and, after as polite a farewell as he could muster up, shutting the door firmly behind him. 

"She wants you." Hannibal turned to see his boy leaning against the wall, arms crossed, trying to hide his blush through bravado. "She likes you, that way," he continued, as Hannibal merely hummed, his eyes dilating slightly with each step forward. He knew he must look like a predator, but he had wanted Will for too long, not to act when he had him in his sights. "But you don't like her..." 

"My darling boy, we've already established I don't," Hannibal murmured, finally reaching his side and submitting to the urge to pull their bodies flush together. Will let out a breathy exclaim of surprise as his hands fell to grip the man's hips. "Not in the slightest," he continued, teeth grazing against his neck. The profiler shivered in his arms, head tilting back slightly, almost a sign of permission. "But you?" Hannibal groaned lowly. "My boy, I want you in ways you cannot even fathom."

"H-h-how'd ya wan' me?" Will slurred, eyes hooded and drunk on the sensation as Hannibal spun him around until they were chest to back. 

The doctor slipped a hand from Will's hip to cup the budding erection in his trousers and ground his hips down to demonstrate his own hardness eagerly straining against his zipper. The curly-haired man whimpered. "I want you laid out like a feast," Hannibal began, squeezing just to the point of pain before palming the younger man's cock teasingly. "I want you quaking and shivering and  _quivering_ for me, desperate and leaking, straining to come and using your mouth to beg for release." Will's hips jerked. "I want you smeared in white, painted in your own release while I trace that tantalising blush of yours, right the way down to the root." He chuckled, biting gently on the profiler's neck and beginning to thrust against his clothes ass, a parody of fucking that Will, too lost in his own head, began to mimic. Soon, they were rocking together, Hannibal thrusting and Will meeting every punishing, jarring, rocking snap of his hips. Another tight squeeze had Will whining aloud, head thrown back all the way and resting on Hannibal's shoulder as the pace built faster and faster. A quick flick of his fingers and thumb and suddenly his hand was inside the cloth restraint, pawing through thin boxers and groaning at the heat radiating from there. Hannibal's ego was also helped by the wetness present inside Will's trousers: he was as desperate as Hannibal was. And it seemed that was enough. "I think we should have dinner later, don't you think my darling boy?"

" _Yes_ ," he gasped. And that - that exclamation of pleasure - was everything he had fantasised about. No more would he be forced to take himself in hand...Will would be  _his_ after their night, Hannibal was sure of it. 

They were moving upstairs before either really registered their feet moving, but Hannibal became aware of clothes divesting, tossed to the side messily. Such a thing would turn his stomach - mess and a distinct lack of neat, sharp, folded cloth corners - but he found himself too mesmerised by Will to give it more than a half-thought. 

And then Will was on his back...on Hannibal's mattress...shirtless, trousers undone, curls mussed with his neck ravaged and beginning to purple...and achingly hard. The doctor had never seen a better sight. He stepped forward and loomed over the younger man, enjoying the way he shivered at the motion. "Beautiful boy," Hannibal crooned, leaning forward to kiss him. Will responded eagerly, hands cupping the older man's face.

"Hannibal," he sobbed, deluded with pleasure and slipping into a headspace that the European wanted to carve open and occupy if it was the last thing he did. "Hannibal, _please_." 

And that,  _then_ , was the moment that Hannibal went from **obsession**  to  _love_.  


	5. antlers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Hannibal, so all rights must go to the amazing minds behind it: NBC, Thomas Harris and everyone else!
> 
> I will try and update as quickly as I can, but there may be a few days between chapters with this fic, so please my lovely people, don't hate me for my slowness.
> 
> Happy New Year lovely people! 
> 
> -R.

The first thing that crossed Will's mind when he opened his eyes and registered his foreign surroundings was  _shit_. 

Shit, shitty-shit. 

Because that was  **not** how the evening was supposed to go. He wasn't the guy to just jump into bed with a man he barely knew - regardless of the attractiveness of him or the inherent chemistry that had seen him constantly thinking of the doctor. But he had - and he had no idea why. Until, of course, he rolled over and saw the naked man lying by his side. 

Then shit, shitty-shit became fucking-fuck in fucking hell, because the man's wrist was bare. The man's wrist was bared and that: that was _Will's_ fucking _soul_ _mark_.

The first time Will had looked upon his own mark, he thought his mate was dead. It was, of course, the only explanation. The thin, stark-black lines were uninterrupted and there was not a hint of colour in sight. A pair of antlers, sharp and violent against the pale skin of his inner wrist, were printed there - wound tightly in a mocking garland of barbed wire and a flower he later discovered (after many sessions of extensive googling, made incredibly difficult by the lack of colour) to be edelweiss. Overall, this mark looked as though it should be more at home in a haunted house, or a movie with a particularly frightening villain, than on his skin. Although he often thought the latter might be appropriate for him, the constant mistrust, horror and fear he received if anyone were to catch a glimpse reflecting the ugly work he  _chose_ to do. But here he was, naked, filled with a mix of emotions - regret, fear, panic and shock - and probably some bodily fluids that weren't his own, staring at the blatant sign from the universe that the man he'd so hastily jumped on was actually his to jump. 

When he calmed slightly, which a quick glance to see his own leather band firmly in place allowed him to do, he began to consider what the existence of that soul-mark meant. He'd always thought his mate was dark, but other than his unnerving insight into Will's head, his seeming obsession with him and a rather... _vigorous_ approach to sex, he didn't seem  **bad**. At least not in the killer-death-to-all kind of way that he'd always assumed was meant for him. 

He groaned when he tried to move. An ache spreading up his spine and down his legs. _Fucking-hell, Graham_ , he thought, dragging the covers back and moving gingerly into a sitting position, glad that his bed fellow had yet to move. He needed to get out of there. Yesterday. He didn't want the morning after, awkward speech filled with stumbling half-words and a forced omission on Will's part. After all the sentence: "Well that was a fucking mistake and I've never done anything like that at all, but in getting naked and frisky with you, I have discovered we are actually soulmates...surprise! Also, are you a killer, because clearly one or both of us are  _fucked-up_."

Yeah, that was the last thing he wanted.

The room was spacious and too light - probably because they had been too distracted to close the curtains - but it was just as opulent as the downstairs rooms and general tone of the house. Will had been convinced the kitchen alone cost more than his house and car combined. Money was no object to someone like Hannibal it seemed. He was a wealthy man who liked to show it if the decor was any indication and as much as Will would like to soak leisurely in what appeared to be a marble bathtub, he couldn't stay any longer with (and staring at) his one-night stand... who happened to be his Soulmate? Oh, it was so messed up. 

A loud, piercing shrill cut off his stealthy attempt at dressing. Will lunged for his phone, trousers slipping on his hips before freezing as a dark set of eyes pinned themselves to him. 

"Will," Hannibal greeted, voice neutral but slightly stiff. The profiler swallowed heavily before glancing down to his phone and noticing the caller ID. He sighed heavily and answered it. 

"Jack," he greeted, posture sagging. 

" _Are you fucking Hannibal Lecter, Will?"_ was the greeting and it was enough to make the curly-haired man want to start digging his own grave. 

"No, Jack," he returned sharply, trying to keep his temper in check. "Why'd you ask?"

" _Alana Bloom called, concerned, late last night,"_ he explained, " _she wanted to ask what was going on? Whether this was a cry for help - throwing yourself at a psychiatrist."_

"Throwing myself?" Will hissed, the lines of his body sharpening enough for Hannibal's eyes to narrow and for the doctor to begin moving, propping himself up on one elbow as he moved the covers out of the way and standing. It was with a grace that Will noticed was much more precise, more focused and much more panther-like that he had initially seen in the handsome doctor.

" _Yes, Will,"_ Jack continued, " _throwing yourself at him. Alana said you were practically climbing the man in the kitchen."_ He sighed heavily, like a parent might scold their child. " _Honestly Will, you barely know the man. This is all a little improper, don't you think?"_

Oh, now he was pissed. 

"Who I chose to fuck - or not to fuck - is frankly my own business, Jack," Will spat, once again aware of the penetrating gaze of his bed fellow. 

" _Not when it's a psychiatrist helping us keep you stable...not when it's one of Baltimore's elite, Will. Not to mention, Alana. I've not seen a more compatible match than her and Dr Lecter."_

Will was practically shaking when a hand slipped around his waist, settling his fraying nerves. He felt himself relax slightly, sagging into the supporting figure of the man behind him. If there was any doubt, then there wasn't anymore. A reaction like that? Hannibal Lecter was his Soulmate. 

"Is there anything else Jack? You know, other than berating me on my choice of bed mate and accusing me of being a harlot?" Will asked, tone more tired than anything. He felt Hannibal tense behind him and was suddenly aware of just how much of the man was packed, dense muscle. It was like there wasn't an ounce, an  _inch_ , of fat on the man. But of course, it did't look like that beneath the paisley suits and flamboyant ties. Not many men built as Hannibal was wore pocket squares and pink. An unfortunate insecurity, yes, but a consistent one. A kiss was pressed to the back of his neck, just below his hair line. It was something he didn't want, or need, until the pressure was gone. 

" _We need you - we have a crime scene. I'll send you the address,"_ Jack continued, as though the previous interaction had not taken place at all. _"Now_ ," he added, as though Will did not here the importance stressed in the word. 

"I'm on my way," Will grumbled, hanging up and letting out a long, heavy breath. Hannibal didn't move from behind him, nor did he speak. "We probably shouldn't do this again," the profiler eventually muttered, hand coming to rest atop of Hannibal's arm. "I don't think it's the right thing to do."

There was a long silence. "Because Uncle Jack said so?"

"Because I don't know you. Because I have enough trouble with people without them thinking I'm some sort of whore who jumps into bed with the first man who smiles at me. Or worse yet, that I'm seducing you for money and keeping you away from your true love, Alana. Because we just had crazy, mad sex and I'm a fisherman from New Orleans and you're some kind of millionaire, and we're incompatible. Plus," he added, running out of steam and excuses, "I'd like to be able to keep myself, uh, myself -"

The arms around him vanished and Will turned to see a look of both surprise and anger on the doctor's features: as though he was shocked Will was pulling away from him and angry at the reasons why. His eyes narrowed a little and even in boxers and an unbuttoned shirt, he still managed to exude an air of authority and sophistication. "So, you propose we no longer see one another..."

"We weren't seeing each other in the first place," the curly-haired man shot back, dragging a hand through his locks. 

A parody of a smile - more mocking and cynical than anything else - pulled at the man's lips. "Apparently not," he murmured. "I would like to, however."

That surprised him. "What?"

"I would like to," Hannibal repeated. "I would like to court you, dear Will. To prove I am a worthy partner." 

He choked on air, because  _court_. He wasn't a medieval maiden. But hell, it was sort of romantic - especially after the blindsiding lust that had immediately preceded them - and Will was kind of swept away by the notion. Until, of course, he remembered just  _why_ there was the overwhelming chemistry there was between them both.  **Soulmates**. Something he had never wanted; something he had long since written off as impossible and just not-for-him. That, and well, that was his soulmate and fucking hell, he'd be lying if he didn't say he was panicking like a headless fucking chicken. 

"I'd like that too, Hannibal," Will confessed quietly, heart racing in his ears, "but it's not...it's too difficult, too complicated. We, uh, we should just stick to being acquaintances, okay? We'll, uh, see each other around... yeah?"

Another long silence and more anger behind the doctor's eyes. "If that is what you wish, darling boy," he finally ground out.

Will hesitated. "Uh, okay. I've got to go," he confessed, babbling a little, grabbing his shirt and nodding once at the man before fleeing downstairs and outside, the front door shutting with a resounding  **thud** behind him. 

He'd thrown the car into reverse and was speeding away before he registered what the hell had just happened. Because that was more than just an unexpected romp in the sack -  _fuck_ \- that was, he'd just met his Soulmate...his Soulmate...HIS SOULMATE. He slammed the car to a stop and thumped his hands on the steering wheel over and over and over again, until they were bruised and hurting badly. Because he'd also just rejected his soulmate. 

 _Shit_ \- what the hell was he doing?

By the time he'd pulled himself together and made it to the crime scene Jack had specified, the side of his palms were purple and his knuckles had almost stopped bleeding. There was a slight shake to them, too, which showed that he had probably done more damage than he realised to them. He shoved them into his pockets when he clambered out of the car, pulling his coat close around him and trying desperately to look like he hadn't just rocked up from Hannibal's house.

Within a moment, he knew that was going to be nearly impossible. Bev smirked at him and the rest of the technicians looked at him disapprovingly as they greeted him at his car. Will ignored the looks as best he could as they directed him through the open field he'd been summoned to, past the extensive tape that signalled the beginnings of the crime scene and in-between the cars and tech vans parked there. Jack's expression was as equally unimpressed. 

"I came as soon as you called," Will said before the older man could make a comment. 

"From where?" was his only reply and the words made Will feel about an inch tall. He swallowed heavily and stepped past, looking at the  _mess_ before him. It was, frankly, carnage. Will knew it was the Mark Mutilator, the aura was recognisable, even beneath the insanity of it all. However, the killer hadn't simply stopped at decimating the marks on the victim's wrists - he'd butchered them into tiny pieces. The couple - two men apparently - had been hacked up, leaving body parts strewn about the grass. 

"This is rage, Jack," Will ventured quietly. "This isn't about courting a soulmate anymore," he muttered, "this is anger towards them."

"So he's changed his motive?"

 _No,_ _that wasn't right..._ "Not his motive - he still wants them. But it's like he knows now that they don't want him..."

"Because he's not a match?" Jack pressed, wanted answers. 

"Match or not a match, it's not about that. His intended doesn't want him, he wants someone else - they may be a match, they may be not, our killer doesn't know."

"And so this is his way of sneaking in a stealing a person not meant for him away from someone else?" Jack summarised and Will knew, as soon as he finished the sentence, that the dig was at him; and anger was beginning to burn in his veins. 

"Yeah Jack,  _sure_ ," he snapped, turning on his heel and storming away, ignoring the snide remarks that followed. 

He wanted to get home, shower, sit with his dogs and forget everything that had happened. He probably wouldn't be able to, but hell, he was going to do his best...


	6. key

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Hannibal, so all rights must go to the amazing minds behind it: NBC, Thomas Harris and everyone else!
> 
> Hey y'all - sorry it's been so long since I updated this thing; life has been crazy: work busy af., no less than three family members in and out of hospital and myself plagued by illness have led to a rather depressing past few weeks.... I hope y'all are good though.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments btw, and even though I'm pretty shitty at replying to them, I wanna thank y'all for them, because you guys are awesome: so thanks muchly people. 
> 
> Stay peachy,  
> -R.

Hannibal would be the first to admit that he wasn't quite sure what love was.

Obsession? - he knew that all too well. The itch beneath the skin that just wouldn't leave no matter how hard he scratched. The burning, twisting thing that sat like a stone in his stomach, reminding him ever-so-often of its presence by yanking on his guts. Obsession and he were old friends - nearly lovers in fact - and there was little he didn't know of it. Love, however, was a much different, more _particular_ mistress. A tentative,  _tantalising_ thing he knew threaded through his early childhood, but he couldn't recall, no matter how hard he tried. So, Hannibal did what he did with all thing: he found his own meaning. He clawed and pressed and pulled until emotions were less knotted and jumbled, like a string of tangled yarn, but a linear, understandable thing. 

He was obsessed with Will, he knew. Obsessed with  _possessing_ Will and owning every part of him; keeping him away from the world - Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom in particular - and preserved for only his eyes. But there was something more than that. It had taken Will spread out beneath him, pupils blown wide and lips bitten red, to come to life. It had taken Will leaving his bed for him to understand it.

Love. 

Because, for the first time, his emotions didn't end with obsession. He didn't want to possess, play and then discard. He didn't just want to own Will for aesthetics and so no one else could; he wanted to  _keep_ the man. Hannibal wanted to know him, hold him, keep him, have him over and over and over - and he knew that he'd never grow bored of the profiler. He had been a killer for nearly all of his life and for the first time, there was no desire for games, no itch to chase or hunt, no wish to break down and grind into pieces. He wanted Will because he couldn't imagine not having Will, because he wanted to protect Will, curl around him and smile into the curls on his head as he read aloud his thoughts on cases, gossiped about the technicians or recited his day. And Hannibal would accept mess and dogs and  _morals_ if it meant he could keep the blue eyed beauty.  

And that, he thought, must be exactly what love was. Messy, complicated, confusing, damning - but still, it was  **love**. 

He wondered when it had happened? How he had allowed himself such a thing? In truth, he knew the moment he heard the  _understanding_ in his words and saw the spark behind the man's eyes, he was lost forever. There would never be another who could understand Hannibal like Will could, and surely that meant there could never be another who could accept him either. Because who didn't long for understanding and acceptance in the world? So Hannibal had to acknowledge the ache in his chest, had to label it and swallow his fear, and pride, because it was love.   

William, it seemed, had a different opinion. 

What. The. Fuck.

When Hannibal was younger, he had often fantasised about his soulmate - about the remarkable person who was bound to him for all eternity. His mother and father had read him stories of brave couples crossing oceans to find one another, or knights bound to princesses, and demons remade by their love for an angel. It was innocent, simple, and beautiful, of course. But they were fairy-tales - they were supposed to be beautiful. By the time he was ten, he was alone, his family in the Lecter crypt and not even Uncle Robert could convince him to believe in the insanity of soulmates. He didn't need them to love. And Will was testament to that, wasn't he? His beautiful, darling Will.  _Confused_ and  _broken_ , yes, but in time, he would reassemble into the perfect version of himself, Hannibal was sure. Because the man was strong and resilient: a weathered old tree in a storm. 

So, as soon as he answered the call from a reluctant sounding Jack Crawford he knew nothing could prevent him replying, driving an hour simply to walk through the halls of the FBI in the hope of seeing Will again. It may have only been eight days after losing what little heart he had left to the scruffy man, but it felt like a lifetime, and even a chance to see Will was enough for Hannibal. 

Jack was not alone in his office and unfortunately for Hannibal, Will was not the man he was sat with. 

In fact, Hannibal felt his lip curl in distaste at the companion Jack had.  _Frederick Chilton_. 

The Chief Administrator was never someone Hannibal really thought about - after all, why would he? - but when he did, he considered the man as a rather sad excuse for a psychiatrist with little gumption, a constant and palatable fear and smugness that soured the air around him, and far too willing to bend the rules in all the wrong places. In fact, Hannibal thought so  _little_ of the man that he had, in his surprise, almost inhaled his morning coffee rather than drinking it when Alana had informed him several months previously that Frederick did in fact have a soul-mark. He was placated, though, when he saw the mark: an old, dulled and simple brass key with no ornamentation and murky colouring. It was an obvious nod towards the man's pathological need to be in control, to be superior, as well as his incredibly unexciting personality. Hannibal did though find irony in the man's job: who better to hold the keys to the worst and most dangerous in society than a man with a key branded into his skin? Chilton was, however, too boring to even find excitement in that - were Hannibal in charge, he'd take each one and wind them up until the screws in their minds creaked in effort and let out high pitched whistles as they fractured. It would interest him to see just how each one went. The lacklustre approach by the psychiatrist was disappointing, especially when his poor attempts to break the rules (and to impress Hannibal) had ended with some psychic driving that was little more than a drunken fumble with the mind. His darling Will, even in his current _moral_ state, could do more... would do more.  

"Dr Lecter," the man greeted, rising from his seat as his lips twisted into that tight, smug smile Hannibal hated so much. "How wonderful to see you could join us."

"Dr Chilton," Hannibal replied politely, taking the offered hand before flickering his eyes over to Jack in a silent question. 

"It's all hands on deck, Doctor," the profiler replied as Hannibal let his own palm, still flushed to Chilton's, fall away.

"The Mutilator?" Hannibal prompted, folding himself neatly into the spare chair as Chilton dropped back into his own. 

"In part," Jack nodded, before gesturing to the man beside him. "I've asked for Dr Chilton's cooperation -"

"My patient in particular," Chilton cut in, "has a unique insight into this case. He's offered to help Jack in his endeavours."

"Patient, Frederick?"

Chilton turned to Hannibal, eyes widening slightly and he leaned in, voice dropping as he began. "Why, Doctor, haven't you heard?" he said, tone like that of a conspirator, "I have Baltimore's own Chesapeake Ripper," he continued, clearly both gleeful and humoured by the situation.

Hannibal kept himself calm, but allowed his surprise to filter through the carefully constructed mask he had fashioned for himself. "Well, Jack," he began, a half smile on his face, "I suppose we can rest much easier now."

"Graham doesn't think Abel Gideon is the Ripper, I don't know - either way, it doesn't matter," he said, ignoring the blustering of Chilton beside him, "because Gideon, no matter who he claims to be, says he has information on the Mark Mutilator." There was a pause. "I want you to go in and help with the interview."

"Me?" Hannibal asked, eyebrows rising slightly. 

"It can't be Dr Chilton or Dr Bloom, they've both had prior contact, and well we need fresh eyes," Jack hesitated, apparently incredibly reluctant to involve Hannibal, "and Gideon's asked for Will specifically. But I want someone to go in with him. Especially if this man  _is_ the Ripper. I can't have Will getting too involved with the Ripper. I need him focused on this killer."

"He's the Ripper Jack," Chilton laughed, "of course he is. The incident several months ago, with the nurse?" The BSHCI administrator turned to Hannibal again. "Abel Gideon was able to perfectly recreate the crime scene of the Ripper's eighth victim," he began excitedly, "has been consistent in his claims to be the Ripper and of course, the Ripper has been dormant for the same amount of time Gideon has been in my care." He turned back to Jack. "Tell me how Gideon  _isn't_ the Ripper, Jack," he smiled, "otherwise, why hasn't he killed in years?"

"Because he's smarter than you."

The voice came from behind, but Hannibal didn't need to turn to know just who it was. There was no one else with _that_ voice. His heart jumped a little in his chest and he rose steadily, as though to show respect rather than an eager need to be beside the younger man. 

"Will Graham," Chilton breathed next to him, something akin to awe in his tone as the profiler walked a few steps forward and settled in the space immediately on Hannibal's right, putting the European as a buffer between him and the psychiatrist. He may not have known he was doing it, but the movement made something fierce erupt inside Hannibal's chest.

"Doctor Chilton," Will echoed, pushing up his glasses nervously, but letting some fire bleed through. He turned sharply to Jack. "I'm here. Gideon's not the Ripper. What are we doing on the Mutilator?"

"Will Graham," Chilton said again, "my, my, it is good to finally meet you. You are  _quite_ the topic of conversation in psychiatric circles, Mr Graham." It was difficult to miss Will's wince. 

"Jack," Hannibal prompted, casting a half glance to the curly-haired man still slightly invading his space before turning and fixing his gaze on the profiler. 

"Gideon may have information on the Mutilator," he explained again. "He wants to talk to you Will."

"Abel Gideon doesn't know anything," Will spat. "He only wants to see me because he wants me to tell him he's the Ripper. I'm not going to do that Jack."

"Will -" Jack began, voice gruff: a  _warning_. 

"The Ripper is careful and calculated; he plans every murder before he commits it and he  _elevates_ his victims. Abel Gideon butchered his wife and in-laws in a fit of passionate rage. They have completely different psychologies," Will hissed, throwing his hands about as he spoke and shaking his head with each sound Chilton made. Hannibal, however, was stunned - his ears ringing with a single word:

 _Elevates_. 

"Elevates," he muttered, eyes catching the flitting gaze of the blue-eyed teacher. 

Will swallowed heavily, trying to release himself from the heavy stare he was pinned beneath, but eventually began to talk. "These people, they aren't people to him, they're pigs. Not equals, not even worth being here. He sees them as less but when he kills them, they change. The victims are transformed, they are elevated in death from something he can't stand to something... beautiful." Will huffed out a self-depreciating laugh and finally turned away. "He creates art," he muttered, hand coming to scrub at his eyes, before he finally looked back at Chilton. "Abel Gideon isn't an artist."

"An interesting theory, Mr Graham," Chilton relented before smiling too sweetly to be genuine. "I suppose we shall agree to disagree."

"I want you to go and talk to Gideon, Will," Jack ordered. "Alana and Dr Chilton will be there also, as will Dr Lecter," he continued, a weighted glare Hannibal didn't fully understand making Will squirm uncomfortably for a second before anger flitted through his beloved's eyes. 

"Fine," Will eventually ground out. 

"Good." With that the profiler turned on his heel and stormed from the room, the line of his shoulders like marble: cold and unforgiving. 

"Shall we Dr Lecter?" Chilton asked, smug once more, as he stood. Hannibal caught a faint, half glance of the brass key printed onto the man's wrist before his eyes flickered up and rested on the comfortable place between Frederick's eyes. 

"Of course," the man nodded, pulling on his coat and smiling politely at Jack before following after Will. 

"What a fascinating individual, don't you think, Hannibal?" Chilton asked after they were a few steps from Jack's office. "Will Graham," he added as though the European's mind wasn't overwhelmed and drowning in Will already.

"Quite," he answered sharply. Chilton, of course, took no notice. 

"What I wouldn't give to look inside Will Graham's mind," he continued. "Pure empathy," he practically moaned, before dropping his voice slightly, "and I heard he had encephalitis not too long ago. Undiagnosed until he ended up in the hospital. Wouldn't that have been most incredible to study? Almost a shame he was cured."

Before Hannibal would have said yes. But now? No. He could never imagine Will being punished in such a way - not even if it were for Hannibal's own benefit.  _Love indeed,_ he thought cynically. "Any illness that affects the mind would be, objectively, interesting to study. However, ethically, to consider or remark of such a thing..." he trailed off, disapprovingly. 

"Oh, oh of course not," Chilton blustered, face reddening quickly at the rebuke. They were silent for a moment. "Although," he began again, "I know that dear Mr Graham is soul-marked. I wonder at the person who he was destined for..."

"Again, that is not for us to discuss," Hannibal replied, voice hard. Yet unlike before, Chilton didn't register the rebuke, clearly too deep in his own thoughts to respond appropriately. However, when the European turned slightly and caught his companion running his fingers over his mark, curious, a rage rose within him. 

 _He,_ _Will's soulmate?_ The audacity to even _think_ it was appalling. His rage burned through his veins.

Until he saw Will.

And as his eyes raked over the form of the beautiful profiler leaning against the car, deliberately ignoring Alana who was moving towards him, something calm washed over him and Hannibal let himself ponder what he had never even _thought_ to consider. 

Because maybe obsession wasn't  _just_ obsession. Maybe Will's early morning flight from his bed wasn't just to escape an awkward situation...

So as his own fingers ran over the supple leather on his wrist, he calmly noted which recipe would be best for Frederick's tongue and began to plan how he would find out if the mark on Will's wrist matched the one on his own.     


	7. garland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Hannibal, so all rights must go to the amazing minds behind it: NBC, Thomas Harris and everyone else!
> 
> Hey hey! Trying to be a little more speedy with these updates, especially as I'm better and the family is doing alright! Hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> Stay frosty my Hanni-friends,  
> -R.

Abel Gideon's mark was a garland of flowers, made from beautiful purple irises, white daisies and yellow roses, all entwined with one another in the way skilled florists often dreamed of doing. The garland encircled what, at first sight, looked like a star, but upon closer inspection, was a bold, thick-lined, triangle in bright, claret red. Overall, it was a mark that Will thought was both incredibly unique and incredibly beautiful in it's own distinct way... or at least it would have been, were it not laid on the skin of a murderer. Somehow, knowing that, the white daisies were more greyed, the irises were like pointy spears and the yellow blobs wrapped awkwardly around a blood-coloured triangle that was, in you squinted one eye, lopsided. 

 _Perception_ , Will thought ironically.  _It changes everything._

Even if the garland was on a man who was only Abel Gideon and nothing more - with no hint of the Ripper in sight - it was still tainted. As regardless of whether he was what he claimed, he was still, as Jack Crawford labelled him: a monster. He _had_ murdered his family after all. And his case was not helped by his ridiculous assertions of actually being the Ripper - because what other than a monster would confess to mutilating people while they still breathed? Who would admit to carving up bodies only to mount them on spikes like sacks of meat? Because no matter how beautiful his 'art' was, the Ripper was a dark, dangerous, twisted thing that had no doubt writhed in the bowels of Hell... until Hell expelled it for being too poisonous. And Abel Gideon must be a monster, or at least think like one, to even consider such darkness. 

Will didn't want to think how, by that logic, he was a monster too. So he considered another version of  _why_. Before he knew Hannibal was destined for him, Will had thought it might be someone like that, like the Ripper, who bore his mark. At one point, he had been certain that the Ripper himself, and not just another killer, was the other half of his soul. Maybe the thought of the Ripper caught and caged affected him in ways he couldn't even admit to himself because they were bound by Fate? Perhaps that would explain his affinity for the man; how he could understand and see well beyond what he did with others. Maybe it was for that reason that his hackles had raised at the mere thought of Jack labelling him  _psychopath_ or  _sociopath_ or whatever other distinction his 'Evil Minds Museum' would want to write on crisp white paper beneath the photographs of his crime scenes. He hated the ceremony of it all more than anything, but also the incorrectness of it all. Because _He_ wasn't a sociopath, a psychopath, or any such label they might try to use for him. 

"Will?" a voice asked, breaking his musings gently. 

 _Hannibal_.

A hand briefly touched his shoulder and even though it was reassuring in it's weight, Will knew the Doctor was holding himself back - although he didn't know it that was for his benefit or his own. It seemed his flight from the psychiatrist's bed had done more than rattle him, but had affected Hannibal too.

"Yeah," he nodded, fiddling with his glasses slightly as Chilton droned on about something insignificant and Hannibal quietly took Gideon's file from his hands before handing it back to the Chief Administrator. The profiler had no intention to listen to whatever was being said and instead took the moment to really study the European. He looked the same and aside from the slight undertone of hesitance, he acted the same too - calm, collected and in control. But, Will thought, narrowing his gaze, there was something else. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Something just on the edges, barely straddling the line of real and not-real, that kept slipping through his insight as though it were made of holes. Whatever it was, it had taken on a life of it's own - it had clearly lived on the fringes of Hannibal's existence for many years (probably most of his life in fact), but for some reason, was daring the glaring lights of frequent thought. 

 _What was it_? 

The man noticed his staring if the slight quirk of his lips and a half-raise on his eyebrow was any indication. Will blushed instantly, half embarrassed at being caught and the other annoyed for sending the man mixed messages. He couldn't very well declare himself a 'good friend' if he proceeded to ogle the psychiatrist every time he turned his back. It wouldn't begin their companionship well. 

 _Companionship_? His brain shuddered to a halt suddenly, before reality and common sense caught up: of course they would be in each other's lives. Even if Will maintained the charade of 'just friends' for the foreseeable future, they  _were_ Soulmates. They would be drawn to each other like moths to flames, unable to quantify or understand the extent of why they had to be beside the other - or at least Hannibal would be unable, Will would have no difficulty in understanding the extent of their natural chemistry. 

"Will," Hannibal murmured again, another touch - this time a gentle nudge - accompanying the word. A pair of eyes swung around at the exchange, damningly heavy in their weight:  _Alana_.

The woman had barely said two words to Will on the journey to the Hospital, yet had repeatedly attempted to engage Hannibal in conversation - an attempt he had rebuffed over and over again. Will would be embarrassed for the brunette if he weren't so amused by the situation. Yet Will standing elbow to elbow with his Soulmate clearly aggravated her. He wondered if she had convinced herself Hannibal was playing coy, rather than showing blatant disinterest. Will hoped he had never acted so poorly before in his life.

"Sorry," he muttered back, still ignoring whatever Chilton had to say, and his body seemed to sag in on itself, instinctively seeking protection from the one person he knew could provide it. There were a few more moments before the small party was ushered through the doors and down into the basement as Chilton strode ahead, crowing about his favourite patient.

"Here we are, Dr Lecter, Mr Graham," Frederick finally said, coming to a stop and gesturing through the doors. "I hope you come to change your mind, Mr Graham," he added, lips tugging in an almost cruel smile that made Will shiver slightly. 

"As though you won't be listening to every word we say," the profiler snorted in reply; his attempt to try and quell the pit of  _something_ writhing in his stomach. God, he really hated this place. 

"Are you alright Hannibal?" Alana asked, ignoring Will deliberately. A slight narrowing of the Lithuanian's eyes told Will he had noticed the snub. 

He turned to the curly-haired man. "Shall we proceed?" he asked, nodding at the pair of them in turn before holding the door open for Will. 

The corridor where Abel Gideon was kept was much like every other corridor in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane: grey, damp, dark and incredibly depressing. He wasn't surprised the inmates were mad as they would surely be driven mad by the conditions of the place if nothing else. Each square inch of dank mouldy stone made a heavy chill inch deeper into Will's bones as though every part of him was being claimed by the place. The very essence of the Hospital was like sticky tar, clinging to his shirt and hair with thick, unrelenting fingers that dug in deep when he tried to shake it free. He knew, no matter how hard he tried, that some of that _sense_ would be following him home: a nightmare stalking behind him. It was a despairing thought. Will already dreamt of killers, darkness and flames devouring feathers - things that no normal person would ever think of. He couldn't afford anything new to carve out space inside his brain, otherwise there wouldn't be anything left for himself... or, he thought, Hannibal either now too, because he was just a part of Will and Will was.

Abel Gideon was exactly how Will remembered: dark-haired and shifty looking. There was nothing spectacular about him, nothing sinister despite all the labels associated with him; a person might claim to feel uncomfortable in his presence, but never  _scared_. He was odd. 'Not psychopathic, just odd' had been a frequent remark from those who knew him after his arrest and Will thought the description suited him rather well. A long, deep inhale from his side reminded him that this time, he wasn't alone in facing the strange creature behind the bars across from him.

"Ah, Mister Graham," Gideon greeted slowly, looking very much like the cat who had just been presented with a rather large and rather wonderful saucer of cream. 

"Doctor Gideon," Will returned neutrally before tipping his head to the side. "This is Doctor Lecter," he introduced. Hannibal did a sort of half head bob in greeting that made Will smile just a touch. 

"Another Doctor?" Abel asked, grinning. "Lucky me."

"I'm here, Dr. Gideon because you told Dr. Chilton that you have information to share with the Bureau regarding the serial-killer known as the Mark Mutilator," Will began, determined not to get drawn into a battle of words, wits or wills with the mad man across from him. 

Abel only tutted, shaking his head the way a parent might do when scolding a small child. "No, no,  _no_ , Mr Graham," he muttered, tilting his head just-so, "I want to talk about other things before we get to the Mutilator." 

"Like...?" Will prompted.

"Will, Will,  _Will_ ," he chuckled, pacing the length of his cell. "Me, of course." 

"You're not the Ripper, Abel," the profiler retorted, ignoring the tiny voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Jack that raved in annoyance that he hadn't played along. 

"What do you think, Dr Lecter?" Gideon said, turning sharply to Hannibal, something in his tone that Will didn't like at all. But Hannibal, as unflappable as he was, barely even blinked. 

"I think that your perception of what you are is something that no-one can truly understand other than yourself. I believe, Dr Gideon, that  _you_ think you are the Ripper. Although I am uncertain as to where this belief stemmed from," he returned politely.  

There was a pregnant pause. Then, Abel smiled. "Spoken like a true psychiatrist," he said eventually. "You think dear Dr Chilton has had a hand in this?" he asked, gesturing to his head.

Hannibal smiled as though he were privy to some incredibly delicious secret. "I never mentioned Dr Chilton," he replied evenly.

Gideon laughed at that. "Got me there," he chuckled, before looking back at Will. "It seems you are not the only one I have to convince," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "But tell me,  _Will_ , why I am  _not_ the Ripper? Tell me how I couldn't be."

Will shrugged, ignoring the sudden dryness in his throat. "If you were the Ripper, you'd tell me what you did with the organs."

"Now where would be the fun in that?" he drawled. 

"You wouldn't be able to help yourself," Will muttered. 

"Maybe I just like to look at them. Surgical trophies are always the best reminders," he shot back. 

Will snorted loudly, shaking his head. "What do you know about the Mutilator, Dr Gideon?"

"You think you  _know_? About what I do with the organs?"

Will grit his teeth and his mark began to  _burn_. "I'm pretty sure, yes."

"Tell me," Gideon ordered. 

"You should know," Will shot back. "Tell me about the Mutilator."

"Dear Will Graham," he huffed, shaking his head, "will you every believe me?"

"Your wife," Will said, throwing caution to the wind and letting the building rage to bleed into his veins. "You killed her but you didn't take any trophies."

"I didn't want to keep any part of her," Abel replied in explanation. 

"She was healthy and she trusted you, there would have been no fear, right up until there was."

Gideon looked confused for a moment before his features smoothed out. "I'm becoming bored of this, Mr Graham." He sighed heavily before looking at Hannibal. "I'm glad you brought him with you, Will. He's at the centre of this." His gaze was weighted. "What a catch he is..." With that, Abel turned on his heel and strode to the back of his cell; a clear dismissal. 

Will was moving at the same time, motioning for Hannibal to follow, knowing they would gain no more information from the man now. They slipped through the door as soon as a loud buzz signalled it unlocked. "You know what he's saying, right?"

Hannibal's lips were pressed tightly together. "Indeed."

"He's saying the Mutilator's after  _you_ ," Will hissed, blood racing - panicking. It was something he wasn't familiar with, especially concerning another person. But Hannibal wasn't just  _anybody_. Shit, his  _Soulmate_ was in danger.  

"Will," Hannibal murmured, fingers gently taking his unmarked wrist as though to check his pulse, but if the light, half-squeeze was anything, his only intention was to provide reassurance and support. The blue-eyed man was too strung out, too worried to retreat from the man's grip, or even try to put weight into the rebuking glance he knew he _should_ use, because Soulmate or not, he wasn't ready for this. Not to mention, of course, that Hannibal could do a hell of a lot better than broken, messed-up _him_.

Hannibal's face twisted slightly, almost half-curiosity and half-desire, and Will couldn't determine which emotion ruled more thoroughly in his state. He only knew that neither should really have a place on the man's features. Just as he went to pull away, the doctor dragged a thumb over his pulse point, tracing a series of shapes over and over that it only took Will a few interactions to place. 

It was crude but the sentiment was there. It was his  _soulmark_ being drawn into his skin. Correction,  _their soulmark_.

Will made no sound other than a short, thin whistle of breath through his teeth, but between that, the wideness of his eyes and the sudden paling of his face, it must have been obvious. And if the brilliant man wasn't sure before, Will's reaction would have surely pointed to one inevitable conclusion. A small, gentle smile tugged at his lips and Will breathed in sharply.

Hannibal knew. 

Something akin to satisfaction crawled over the man's features and another squeeze of his wrist spoke volumes of his reassurance to Will and his commitment. His expression mirrored the one he had worn when he spoke of his desire to  _court him_. In the face of information that revealed him to be the target of a serial killer, he was concerned only with how Will was, how Will was reacting,  _that_ Will was reacting. But when there was no outward reaction from the blue-eyed man, however, he pushed forward, gently lifting the profiler's hand until he could comfortably drop a kiss on the inside of his unmarked wrist. To many in society, it was done between non-matching couples, to show their dedication to each other  _despite_ the marks on their skin. But the motion was a proclamation for Will and Will alone.  _Take all the time you_ _need_ , he was saying, _but I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere._  

Oh. Hell. His soulmate was a gentleman.

The world seemed to stall a little and red crept from Will's neck upwards towards his face and flooded his cheeks until they were bright and rosy. He felt like a teenager again: unsure but flushed with enough hormones to make him feel everything in high definition. But the world kept spinning and the profiler soon became uncomfortably aware of a pair of eyes that were pinned to him.

 _Alana._ Again.

Alana, who was staring at them, wide-eyed, mouth slightly agape and flushed herself. There was no way she had missed their exchange - and Hannibal had probably been aware of her presence before he'd pressed his lips to Will's wrist - and she turned sharply towards the European, disbelief and barely concealed anger tearing at the crude mask of civility she wore. Gone was the concern and panic Will was sure had settled there in the wake of Gideon's revelation and instead anger-horror-shock. Hannibal only raised an eyebrow, silently questioning her outrage, and despite everything Will couldn't help but cough out a chuckle. The older man quirked his lips in response, ignoring the ruddy complexion of the woman before them that was breaching a colour that was considerably dangerous in nature. Her burning red face blurred slightly as Hannibal ushered Will away before she could speak. 

"When?" Will asked, voice hoarser than he would like. 

"Today," the man replied in his usual, honey tone, but there was an undercurrent of something incredibly  _gleeful_ that Will couldn't miss. "I confess myself incredibly eager to prove such a theory."

Will sighed heavily, throwing a glance at the man by his side who had yet to release his hand, and shook his head. "Bastard," he muttered, but there was affection there that his fatigue made impossible to conceal. "This is hardly the time..." 

"I meant what I said, Will," Hannibal pressed on, ignoring his comment, "about -"

"Fine," Will retorted, blushing hard now. This was not a conversation he wanted in a Institute for the Criminally Insane. "But later," he continued, "we'll... uh,  _talk_ , yeah?" He heaved in another long breath. "First we need to sort all this out; see if there's anything in this..."

"Of course, dear Will," the man replied, finally relinquishing his grip, although the look in his eye spoke volumes of his reluctance to do so. It was then that Will placed the  _something_ he had seen in Hannibal's expression earlier: the fragile thing that had existed on the fringes of his existence:  _joy_. 

"I'm sorry," Will murmured after another moment, "about -"

"Don't think of it, my dear," Hannibal replied quietly. He offered a smile before something akin to curiosity stole over his features once more. 

"What?"

"Oh," he began, "I was simply curious about your comment to Dr Gideon, regarding the Ripper trophies."

"About his wife?" Will asked as they slipped through more doors and out into the open air. 

"Yes." 

The curly-haired man took in a steadying breath and shrugged as though his train of thought wasn't dark and twisted. "The wife was unafraid and was healthy," he began. "Fear or illness, it would have made the meat bad." He shrugged again, choking down something vile that bayed in his blood at the idea and he turned to look at his Soulmate. "He's  _eating_ them."


	8. wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Hannibal, so all rights must go to the amazing minds behind it: NBC, Thomas Harris and everyone else!
> 
> Again guys, sorry for the delay, but this has been a pretty crappy week. My cousin's classmate died this week, so he's been pretty out of it as you can probably imagine. Freak accident, which makes it all the more scary - it could have been anyone... 
> 
> I hope you guys are all safe out there in the universe; safe, and sound. 
> 
> Stay happy people,  
> -R.

Despite Hannibal's desperation to find himself alone with Will, the revelation Abel Gideon had unveiled meant that a return trip was needed to the FBI. It was possibly the slowest drive of all and the European almost confessed to being the Ripper simply to speed up the journey. He was  _shaking_ with anticipation at what he had discovered. Will was  _his_. He had yet to see the mark and confirm, but the reaction of the beautiful profiler had all but bared his wrist to him. Will was his. 

Completely. 

There was a giddiness that swiftly overtook him before he forced some semblance of composure to settle on his face, but from the heated cheeks of his beloved, he had not been entirely successful. Not to mention that after his rather deliberate display for both Will and Alana - and of course his darling's insight into his use of the organs - Hannibal was more than a little emboldened; in fact enough to entwine their fingers together as they sat side by side, thighs pressed against each other, in the back of the car. The woman driving was deliberately avoiding looking at the pair but Hannibal made sure that whenever her eyes flickered back to them, he was gazing at Will with every ounce of affection written on his features. Her infatuation with him had crossed from a nuisance to blindingly rude. He was Will's now. 

Although, he thought wryly, he always had been. 

Jack was waiting for them in the lab when they returned, with Katz, Price and Zeller already there and looking over the latest kill. Will dropped their hands just before they entered, but didn't move from his place practically glued to Hannibal's side, which made something fierce rise in his chest. He wasn't sure what Will thought he had been trying to achieve by denying what they were to each other, but he was sure that the man's lack of self-confidence and disbelief in his own worth (no doubt a product of years of people such as Alana and Jack treating him as they did) was a strong factor. Hannibal vowed that he would never again let the blue-eyed creature be unaware of just how remarkable he was.

"Jack," Alana greeted, voice wound tight - the sound of her discomfort like music to the foreigner's ears, especially after the discomfort she had placed on Will. "Anything new?" She had called ahead, of course, informing Jack of everything, which had lead to a rather mad scramble to try and find new evidence; to save the Doctor from the madman. 

"There's nothing so far," Beverley answered in lieu of her boss, "but we're still looking. This one's pretty badly damaged."

"Do you have  _any_ ideas Doctor?" Jack took over, imploring. "An old patient perhaps? An ex?"

Hannibal tilted his head as though in thought, watching Will out of the corner of his eye. "None that are capable of this  _kind_ of violence, no. There is a certain intimacy here that dear Will identified that I have not possessed with anyone, nor have I seen in any of my patients." His tone and affectionate endearment was not missed if the sudden score of raised eyebrows and the burning cheeks of Alana were any indication. Zeller even turned to the woman sharply, a silent question on his lips.

"None?" Jack asked again, tone harder and once more staring at Will, who was shifting uncomfortably. 

"None," Hannibal reiterated. "I would have recognised the symptoms in a patient and, well, I am not one to take a partner lightly," he continued, preening at the rising blush crawling steadily up his Soulmate's neck. "And as I said, this person is intimately involved with whoever he has courted."

"Or he thinks he is," Will muttered, half to himself, something turning over in his mind. "A stalker," he affirmed. "You definitely have a stalker."

Hannibal resisted the urge to scowl. "Surely I might have noticed such a thing?"

"There was a shift, in M.O.," Will began slowly, "from attempting to court to, uh,  _rage_."

"Hence the mess," Price chimed in. 

"Yeah. Uh," he was blushing heavily now, "and this change was because the Mutilator, he found out that the person he was courting was, uh," he dragged a hand through his hair, meeting Hannibal's eyes finally, "well, didn't want him."

"Have you found someone then, Dr Lecter?" Bev asked, tone laced with blatant intrigue. 

"That was the evening Dr Bloom joined you for dinner," Jack commented, looking at Alana with some sort of desperate hope that looked unnerving on his face. "I'm guessing we need to get you somewhere safe, Alana." 

Something ugly rose inside Hannibal at the sentiment. There was no possible action he could take save baring their wrists to be any more obvious after their blossoming relationship. So before he could consider the politeness of his words, they were spilling from his lips with more than just a hint of derision. "I can assure you Jack that Alana is in absolutely _no_  danger of being considered a rival to the Mutilator for _any_ of my affections."

Will breathed in sharply.

Alana's face burnt red-hot.

The room turned frosty. 

It was in that moment that Hannibal realised something incredibly obvious in the ensuing silence that he had so far overlooked, mind tumbling as those around him scrambled with the truth like it were a burning coal they had been told to pass between them. The Mutilator must have seen Will and he and understood at once how important the profiler was to Hannibal, and how as long as Will was alive, Hannibal would consider no other (although the European was certain we would consider no other in any circumstances given that there was no-one worthy other than his boy). The Mutilator, therefore, was  _t_ _hreatening_ his Soulmate; and given the method of courting the killer had chosen, it was clear he was somewhat aware of Hannibal's extra-curricular activities, or at least his admiration for death. So he was most likely threatening him too. But more worryingly? -

This killer knew him. 

Once again, his darling William was right. The killer was intimate. 

But not a lover. No. An admirer, perhaps, of the Ripper. 

He hummed thoughtfully, considering the possibilities, but came up short. He had never thought that his proclivities would produce such an infatuation. 

"...notify your partner and she'll need protective custody too," Jack was saying as Hannibal finally tuned in. The man's tone was hard and it didn't take too much effort to understand just what he had said given the tense line of Will's shoulders and the unsubtle grit of his teeth. 

"I think Will is more than capable of defending himself, Jack," Hannibal said breezily, cutting through what little denial the chief had left, "and while I would much prefer a hundred men to defend him, I will leave the decision with Will, as we are very much in his territory."

There was another long, lingering silence. Then a steady, even exhale of breath. 

"You lasted longer than I expected you to," Will muttered, huffing and letting Hannibal preen slightly at the dour faces of the technicians, Jack's horror and Alana's clear mortification. 

"Apologies my darling," Hannibal replied smugly, knowing his Soulmate was aware he was not sorry in slightest.

" _Will_?" Jack croaked, almost to himself. 

"I consider myself to be the lucky one, to be the partner to such a man," Hannibal added before Will shot him a glare that clearly said:  _shut-up-before-they-have-a-coronary._

"Keep looking," the curly-haired man took over, talking to Bev - the only one who didn't seem to have dropped their jaw on the floor - before jerking his chin at the body. "He'll have left clues. He wants Hannibal to know who he is...he's not a danger to Hannibal though, so I think protective custody at this point would just anger him...cause him to kill again. If he thinks Hannibal's being taken away from him, he'll really get dangerous. It might be best to get some ground before we do that..." he paused, tone turning unreadable. "But there is a chance Gideon is just messing us around, so don't narrow all our options just yet." He nodded, turning back to Jack who's eyes had narrowed to deadly slits. "We're going to head home," Will continued, clearly unaware of his slip, but Hannibal basked in it immediately because 'we' and 'home' had just appeared in the same sentence - and that was the beginnings of a glorious dream that had occupied his mind for many weeks. 

"Will," Jack tried again and Hannibal could feel the burning rage well up inside him - because frankly, that was  **enough**. Will clearly picked up on it too, because he practically snarled as his boss. 

"We're trialling this, Jack," he snapped, "and I'm getting incredibly pissed off at you telling me that we're not. Our relationship is none of your fucking business. So until you catch us fucking in the janitor's closet or in the lecture hall, back off." He sucked in a breath. "Call me if anything comes up, but otherwise, get off your pedestal and understand that Hannibal would rather fuck  _me_ than  _her_." He jabbed a finger at Alana before turning on his heel and storming out, dragging Hannibal behind him.

 _Oh_ , his boy was  **radiant.** It was like looking at the sun. The fire burning beneath his skin was glorious and Hannibal knew that barely any encouragement would be needed to let loose the creature that lurked just under the surface. He couldn't wait to see Will painted in red, basking in blood in the moonlight and feral with bloodlust. He would no doubt be the most beautiful being to ever stalk the shadows. 

They were in Hannibal's car only moments later and on the road to Wolf Trap in the next. The Doctor was practically burning in his own skin with anticipation but he calmed himself, letting the younger man have a few minutes to consider both his actions and his words. Hannibal was sure that Will had not stood up for himself in such a way many times before; it made him proud to be such an exception. It was probably after fifteen minutes of silence before the now calm profiler spoke.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," the blue-eyed man finally muttered.

"It's alright," Hannibal soothed, running his fingers over Will's hand gently, "I know now."

"But -"

"Dear Will," he breathed, pulling his gaze from the road to soak in the sight of him, "think no more of it. I am more angry at Uncle Jack's terrible treatment and derision of you than anything you could every possible say, or not say."

"He means well."

"He's a bully, Will, with little concern for  _you_. I, however, have incredible concern for you," he continued, signalling and turning onto the stretch to Will's home. "I consider myself so fortunate to harbour your mark."

Something near a laugh punched its way out of Will's chest. "I don't know why," he finally replied, shaking his head and slipping off his glasses. "He was a bit of a dick about it, but Jack was right. You could have anyone and someone like Alana is much better suited to you than I am."

Oh. No. That just wouldn't do. "William," Hannibal practically barked. "I do not understand just why Jack had decided to interfere in my personal life, but I can assure you that I am the only one able to determine who it best for me and who, of course, I wish to be with. I cared very much for you before I discovered we were bound by Fate herself, and I have found myself enraptured by your mind, your wit and, of course, your beauty from the moment we met. I have never been interested in Alana, never will be and have only stopped myself from revealing her Soulmate to her because Ms Verger did not wish Alana to be involved in the unfortunate business with her brother. Now, my darling, unless you truly have no feelings towards me and never wish to progress beyond what we have," he paused, words tasting bitter in his mouth, "then I will of course, relent."

Will's eyes had gone wide in an almost fear. "No, Hannibal - I mean..." he exhaled heavily, "I'm just afraid," he finally confessed. "I mean, don't - don't you  _worry_ about our mark?"

It made sense, then. Will, in his twisted sort of way, thought that the dark monochrome of their mark was because of the demons he let bleed inside his veins. His beautiful boy was unaware that the black, branching lines that were branded into their wrists were most likely a representation of Hannibal's monsters, and Will's ability to reflect and understand them, rather than him alone. He wondered if Will suspected anything, then, if his conclusion about the mark slipped into the unnatural and murderous. 

"No," Hannibal said, smiling gently. "Not in the slightest. In fact, I quite like our mark, don't you?"

Will hummed but did not reply, choosing instead to look out of the window. Although Hannibal noticed him slowly undoing the straps on the leather that covered his wrist, before shoving the offending material in his coat pocket and letting Hannibal finally see. 

A perfect match. 

Will's house came into few nearly fifteen minutes later and the man was already out of the car before Hannibal switched off the engine. He was knee deep in dogs before the Doctor had clambered from the car and made his way to the porch. "Come on in," Will said, a hint of Louisiana drawl colouring his words, "they're all pretty well behaved." 

The European followed behind obediently, moving into Will's little house that while a lot messier than Hannibal had ever let his own domain become, was much more cosy. He made a note of the bed tucked in the far corner, just through the door and tried to will away the sudden  _need_ that scorched his blood. Will's fingers tracing against his wrist did little to dampen the thoughts. "Can I?" he asked quietly, as though expecting Hannibal to rebuke or deny him. 

Hannibal tilted Will's chin up, meeting his gaze and wetting his lips subconsciously. "You never need ask, my dear," he murmured. Will coloured a delightful shade of pink before his nimble fingers made quick work of the leather band and baring to them both the mark that sat on their wrists. "You're mine," Hannibal breathed out, half disbelieving and half joyful. 

"Yeah," Will nodded, sounding almost drunk. 

The world was quickly narrowing down to just his curly-haired profiler as the edges of Hannibal's vision blurred slightly. "Soulmate," he grinned, surging forward probably too quickly and dragging Will in for a bruising, demanding kiss. 

One of the dogs was barking, but with Will scrambling with his coat and shirt and Hannibal trying to pull off the man's own layers, he paid no attention. Why should he? - everything was euphoric. 

Then Will grunted, slumping into him. Hannibal opened his eyes, startled.

All he saw was a flash of stark, black wings on a bare wrist and then everything went black.  


	9. branches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Hannibal, so all rights must go to the amazing minds behind it: NBC, Thomas Harris and everyone else!
> 
> Hey lovelies, hope everyone is happy out in cyber land. Few potential triggers here: gore (blood majorly (although it is Hannibal, so like, expected lol), but also some really creepy Non-Con touching here, so be aware that shit goes sideways - we only want happy thoughts here.
> 
> Peace and love to you,  
> -R.

Blood was the first thing he tasted when he woke. It was metallic and tangy, sitting heavy at the back of his mouth, perching - waiting to fall into his throat and twist at his insides until he vomited.

Frost was the first thing he smelt when he woke. Sharp, unyielding and too clean, it cleaved at his nose like a hunter with a switchblade - not sharp enough to numb the sensation of being cut apart. 

Pain was the first thing he felt when he woke. His temples bulged as his pulse slammed there, pain carving it's way south, through the tendons and nerves in his neck to burn at the base of his spine.

Silence was the first thing he heard when he woke. A quiet more sinister, more ugly than any before it, it set his mind ablaze with a terror that turned every thought black, cruel and oh so threatening.

White was the first thing he saw when he finally opened his eyes. White- _white-_ white. It was as though bleach had been thrown at the world, draining it of colour, leaving clinical uniformity in its place.

Hannibal was the first thing he thought of.

Hannibal was the only thing he thought of.

His damn near  _perfect_ Soulmate who wanted him despite the monsters, demons and  _things_ that crawled in his head and claimed the space there with talons, claws and grubby, death-stained fingers. Who wanted him regardless of his ugly social skills and lacking manners; despite an inept grasp of normal and crippling anxiety, overwhelming despair at the world; despite the bloodlust that would snatch at his sanity in the dew-covered hours of quiet mornings.

But Hannibal - he wasn't - he,  _He_. 

Will was alone. 

Every inch hurt: a turn, even minute and barely there, burned as though his blood was gasoline and a pack of matches had been forced into the open wounds on his body. He could barely breathe without a wet, gravelly sound spluttering between his lips and a heady, light-headed sensation stealing at his senses... even the senses still recovering from what, from  _who_ had forced their way into his home. Something ugly stabbed at his heart at the thought, tightening his muscles and pushing the pain to the back of his mind, anger and fear numbing better than any anaesthetic. 

When the light finally turned to shapes and colour bled back into the world, Will took note of his surroundings, clutching at a crux of familiarity. It looked like he was in an old barn - one worn by both time and the elements - and judging by the dimming light, it had been some hours since he and Hannibal had returned to his house. But Will knew much could happen in an hour. Especially if one was as crazed as the Mutilator. Because that must be the person behind their attack. 

There was no other who made sense. 

Will hoped his profile held true: that the Mutilator meant Hannibal no harm. That his obsession was enough to save the man Will could see himself falling deeply for. Because if not, then he was rapidly going to see his black mark turn dulled grey and fade from view. It was chilling and forced him to tug at the loose rope tied around his wrists. It took less than a minute to free his hands and drag himself to his feet.  

Someone must have been watching, or at least, had heard him, as the door opened seconds later. 

The man was muscular, but lean. Were it not for his arms slightly bared, Will would never have guessed he packed such muscle beneath it. His hair was closely cropped and dark-brown, with a few stray curls having been missed by whoever had cut it, falling forward onto his broad forehead. He wore what could only be described as a cocky grin: something predatory and eager, but still boyish enough to tell Will that he was more than confident. If he was the one who had Hannibal, Will would have to play the next few moments more than just  _right_ , but  _perfect_. As even if he managed to overpower the man, it might leave Hannibal in danger - and he couldn't have that. It became apparent he was staring when the grin began to pull some twisted emotion from the dark, murky hazel depths of the man's eyes. 

"Hi," he eventually said, oozing enough enthusiasm to make Will's skin crawl. 

He took in a slow, steadying breath. "Hello."

"I'm Matthew," he continued, taking a step forward as though Will were a skittish animal in need of reassurance, before he paused and wet his lips. "You're much prettier in person," he murmured, voice dropping an octave. "Freddie Lounds, she doesn't do you justice," he continued, "so I stopped her from doing you an injustice." Another step. "You  _are_ pretty."

Will swallowed down the rising bile. "Thank you," he replied. "Are we alone?"

Matthew looked feral then before nodding jerkily. "Yeah,  _yeah_." Another step.

"And the man, from before," he smiled tightly, "he won't interrupt us?"

"No. He's dead by now, or will be soon," Matthew growled, lunging forward the last few meters and snatching up Will's wrist before he could move. He ran his fingers over the mark there, ignoring the harsh, panicked breathing shuddering out of Will's body. "I wanted us to match," he continued as though his previous statement hadn't burrowed deep to Will's core and carved him out, leaving only hollow, emptiness behind. "We're so  _close_ ," he snarled, face twisting as he began squeezing hard enough for the profiler to hear his bones grind together and more pain to flare along his nerves. 

"You left me the bodies," Will whispered, biting back tears - his mark was still black.

"Yeah," Matthew breathed, looking up and meeting Will's questioning gaze. "I did." Suddenly, he smiled brilliantly. "Did you like them?"

"You wanted to court me," he deflected. A hand was making its way around Will's waist as Matthew inched closer, pulling his body flush - Will was acutely aware that his captor was hard against his thigh, the heat scorching even through their clothing. 

He felt sick.

He wanted Hannibal. 

"God," Matthew mumbled, fingers digging into his shirt and nails began biting at his back, "I wanted that -  _us._ "

"Abel Gideon thought you wanted Hannibal," Will replied, keeping himself calm. Matthew reared back as though struck, face an open display of anger and horror. 

"Never!" he cried vehemently. "I never wanted  _Him_ ," his lips curled into a snarl. "Dead, that's all I wanted.  _Him -_ dead. And  **I** wanted to kill him," he added, eyes ablaze. "He was a liar. He tried to be with you Will, but he was wrong. He could  _never_ know you like I do."

"You know me?" Will asked, forcing himself to shrug the captor off, letting Hannibal's confidence and smugness bleed into every movement, into his every word. 

"Yes," Matthew breathed, his lips parting just-so, like he was in prayer or pleasure. 

"I don't know you."

"But you understand me, Will. People don't understand much about me. Or about you. But at least we understand each other. At least we  _can_. I can understand everything. I want to - I can." There was something so  _certain_ in the man's eyes that not even Will could fully grasp just what was going on inside his brain. There were a hundred different thoughts slamming around off the bone of his skull, all offering him a different perspective. "My first, I just wanted you to see," Matthew began eagerly, stepping back into Will's space, but to his relief, didn't touch him. "But after a while, I knew you needed something more. Their wrists were unimportant, just like ours can be. We don't have to accept it Will."

"The staging?" Will prompted. 

Something flickered through the gaze of his captor then, but before the curly-haired man could pinpoint it, it had vanished. "It doesn't matter," he finally replied.

"Yes," he insisted, "it does."

Matthew looked angry then - and it was the first anger he had expressed  _towards_ Will rather than simply 'around' him. He narrowed his eyes before sharply tugging Will into his unyielding embrace. Still too weak, and too in the dark, the blue-eyed man let him; although his body trembled at the persistent feeling of  ** _wrong-wrong-wrong_** that burned through him - a wildfire with no foreseeable end or contingency plan. One hand was on his waist, the other slipping to sit in the dip of his lower back. He slipped a thigh between Will's legs, letting out low, menacing growl. 

It took Will a few moments for his brain to present a conclusion:  _it wasn't Matthew who had staged them_. 

"Why did Abel Gideon think you wanted Hannibal?" Will asked, throat tightening uncomfortably as the man began backing his bruised and complaining body back into the wall of the barn.  

"Probably because I asked him about the Ripper," Matthew replied, voice low and almost humoured. 

"Why?" Will continued, watching over the man's shoulder as his mark came in and out of focus. 

" _He_ wanted me to," Matthew replied, rutting forward. "I wanted to kill him, but that wasn't part of the deal," he gasped, mouthing at Will's neck.

"...Deal?"

"I get you," he practically purred, " _He_ gets to change the Ripper."

It was then that Will saw Matthew's mark: a black, brown, deep burgundy red mix of colour that twisted and inked across his wrist. He could see how they were close. Matthew's mark was a hawk made harshly, almost crudely, from sharp, naked branches. It was sinister, violent, and chilling. 

"Two of you," Will muttered, eyes widening. The man chuckled against his neck before letting loose a soft moan. It was then that Will snapped. 

Shoving the man back, he attacked, his mind turning white as he tackled the man to the floor. There was barely a struggle - Will easily gaining the upper hand and he sat himself astride Matthew's chest. The first punch broke his nose; the forth, fractured his cheek; the ninth loosened a tooth; his eye burst on the eleventh. Eventually his face sort of caved in, crumpling like wet paper in on itself. In the end, it was almost pathetic - the high pitched, frightened wheezing of a man who had given the FBI - and Will - so much trouble. The blood spread out on the floor, although not very far...especially as most of it seemed to be on Will himself. His hands, he knew, were badly damaged: despite no pain he knew no one could beat a man's face in without a scratch. But the blood? It was thick and slippery, running between his fingers and down his arms - a lover tracing his body. Some harsh sprays had left his shirt soaked in it and his mouth tasting no longer of his own but Matt's.

It was on his tongue, his lips, his face; in his hair, running into his eyes. He was bathed in it.

He should feel sick - should revolt, as he had always done, against the dark, twisted part of him that liked what he had just done... but he couldn't. He couldn't because there was something running through his veins that felt more than just euphoric: it felt like being reborn. It was the sensation of bliss and finality crashing together in a beautiful, gory climax.

It was then he felt the itching sensation, right over his mark.

It was completely white. 


	10. white

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Hannibal, so all rights must go to the amazing minds behind it: NBC, Thomas Harris and everyone else!
> 
> Hey guys, sorry it's been so, so, sooooooo long, but I have been busier than ever! thank you for sticking by this story and thank you so much for the love guys... I'm going to stick on an epilogue on this as well because I'm too annoying to finish in this chapter! okay have fun...
> 
> -R.

He was a sight, he knew.

Staggering, blood-soaked, through the flat fields, tears carving trails down his face as he pushed himself to move faster-faster to Hannibal. Every movement hurt, as though he was raking his bruised body over glass, but there was no pain that could rack him that would stop his onward march. His euphoria at the death of Matthew vanished like smoke on a westerly wind at the sight of his changed mark. The once violent black mark was now solid white, like the dead, bleached antler his father had mounted on their living room walls. The flowers too had turned white, although the barbed wire became something pale, dulled and far too close to grey for Will's liking. There was an undeniable panic at the sight of it, not least because he didn't understand. From one absence of colour to another. 

There was something seriously wrong with Hannibal. 

He had practically swallowed his own tongue as the hysteria clawed its way from his taught and heaving stomach to the back of his throat, pulling at the vulnerable tissue there with choked off sobs and a hint of bile. Will barely remembered ransacking Matthew's corpse, but he remember the distinct lack of evidence as though it had punched a hole in his chest. His imagination, wild and untempered, offered him image after haunting image of his soulmate strewn in a ditch, or carved up like Sunday lunch. The only clue? - the lack of car. Will knew he had been to relatively near his own home, especially given he had some recognition of his surroundings which only grew stronger and stronger as he stumbled through the grass like a new born deer still unsteady on his feet. 

The sight of his house had never been more welcome, but it was still far too long before Will managed to drag himself onto his porch. Something fiercer than relief washed over him at the sight of his dogs, unharmed, lingering and clearly confused about what was going on. He wondered whether it was the fear of being caught that had stopped the two killers from butchering them too. Winston whined softly as Will stumbled past, but otherwise allowed the profiler to usher him and the rest inside and grab Hannibal's abandoned car keys. He froze when he found himself back outside - because where the hell should he start? Part of him knew he should call Jack - he should let the man take charge and lead the hunt for Hannibal - but Jack didn't have the best track record with recovering lost people. Miriam Lass had never been found, after all, and well, by the time he'd managed to catch the team up with what had happened, Hannibal could already be dead.

No, he needed to go alone. But where?

The answer came surprisingly quickly, especially given the adrenaline stew that was currently his mind.  _Home_. Hannibal was a refined man, wealthy and at ease in the top percent of society. His admirer/kidnapper would want to prove they were also at ease and that they could exist in the same realm. It was a point of pride, theoretically, and the killer would want to stoke his own while tearing down Hannibal’s...  _in theory_. That meant, then, that just as Matthew had taken Will a few kilometres from his own house, the other half of the Mark Mutilator would do the same... or the Opera, or the Theatre, or the Market, the University -  _shit._ Maybe he did need Jack. No - it had to be Hannibal's home.

It  _had_  to be.  

He was halfway down his drive, gunning the engine of Hannibal's pretentious Bentley, before he realised he'd clambered into the car. There was blood smearing across the cream, leather seats; something crude and base about it that turned Will's stomach. There was something grey on his hands, too, that had slid down the steering wheel. He didn't want to think too much about it but his mind replayed the image of his fists breaking through Matthew's face over and over. Will just hoped Hannibal wouldn't reject him when he discovered he'd dripped brain matter down his car, and, of course, what seemed like the entire fluid capacity of his body in the tears still falling from his eyes. He blinked once, twice, _three times_ , before sucking in a long, deep breath and trying to steady himself. A few short, harsh stabs on the console and instructions were suddenly calmly informing him where to turn. It was disjointing, hearing the neutral, ambient noise against the harsh tattoo of his heart. 

A quick glance down…

His mark was still _white_. 

He was pretty sure he blacked out at one point given that when he finally came to, he was outside Hannibal's home - which looked as it always did: serene and superior. There was no evidence of anything sinister about the place… but there was a car in the driveway. _Will’s_ car. Perhaps a twist of irony, or perhaps because it was a little less conspicuous, or perhaps because it had a larger trunk, Will wasn’t sure why the killer had driven his car, but it didn’t matter, because he’d been right. _He was here_.

Or at least he _had_ been.

Will didn’t give any thought to the laws he had broken to reach his Soulmate, nor at his general appearance as he flung himself from the car and raced to the door, ignoring the pain that shot through his with every jolt. Waiting, although most likely the best plan, was not an option for Will. He had to get to Hannibal. 

He  _had_ to. 

The house was quiet. Almost too quiet. There were no creaking sounds or howling winds that one typically saw in movies when houses were 'too quiet', but to the untrained eye, it simply seemed that Hannibal wasn't home. The click of the latch behind him urged him deeper though, because there was something  _off_  that he couldn't quiet pin-point and the mark on his wrist had begun to burn. A glance down made his stomach twist: still white. The kitchen came into view and memories of them began layering over his eyes; Will watching Alana watching Hannibal - who only had eyes for him; the warm pressure at the base of his spine as the Doctor's hand dropped lower and lower; Hannibal - a thorough and fiery lover - urging him backwards and holding him so tightly he felt his bones creak. Will blinked away the memories and the sudden tears that had pricked his eyes, but there was an overwhelming panic that rose in him sharply that was starting to spread through his body like ink in water.

There was no one here.

They’d already gone. 

He was going to have to call Jack, ask him,  _beg him_ , to find the man, the one he was falling in love with who, despite everything, liked him - loved him - and how was that even possible? - because good things never happened to Will, not ever and Hannibal was good, regardless of what anyone said, regardless of the mark, of Will, of the world they were in, of Alana, of life,  _of, **OF - OF - ALL OF IT -**_

_Wait._

There was just enough remainders of control still lurking in Will to push the growing panic down at the sight of the blood on the floor. It wasn't his, he knew, and it wasn't Matthew's. It was barely a drop, but enough to show that perhaps he was wrong to dismiss the notion of being alone. It was too fresh, so either they were close, only having left moments previously, or they were still inside...

Will swallowed heavily and moved towards it, staring at the smooth, undisturbed edges of the little droplet that sat stark against the clean, bright floor of Hannibal's kitchen. He frowned and reached behind, pulling two knives from the block on the counter and slipping one into his waistband before brandishing the other out in front of him, as he stepped into the pantry. 

It was just a pantry. 

His wrist burned again and something akin to a whimper whistled through Will's teeth. A quick look around saw nothing out of place until,  _there –_

It was a sliver of light, barely visible, underneath a stack of shelves that made him pause. There should be _nothing_ behind there, he knew, but there was. There was and, after a careful but hearty pull, what was there came into view. Secret doors and staircases had no business being in the pantry of a psychiatrist. A well-respected psychiatrist at that, too, but suddenly Will felt himself thrown once more into the worse possible scenarios his brain had to offer, because there was only a handful of people with secret rooms… The hair on the back of Will's neck rose sharply and he descended quickly, quietly, eyes barely able to see in the gloom, but the faint glow from above him and in front pushed him on. Then, a voice, barely a murmur but punching through the air like a slab of stone. 

"...don't you see?" The voice was chilling, a whisper, lisping and snake-like, it crawled from the shadows and ran over will with wet syllables. Will hated it instantly. 

"Now now Francis, you're getting ahead of yourself," came the reply and Will almost dropped to his knees.  _Hannibal_. Hannibal was alive.

Then what the **fuck** did _white_ mean…?

"Everything is ready...it has to be perfect," the man -  _Francis_ \- continued as though Hannibal hadn't spoken, his confidence more than just uncomfortable. 

"I do admire your courage, Francis," there was a pause before, "I think I'll eat your heart."

Wait -  _what_? Hannibal? -  _what_...?

 _"He gets to change the Ripper."_ Matthew's words slammed into Will all at once and he really did fall to his knees then, breath leaving him in an instant. Gideon had known, had practically told him at the Insistitute: Hannibal  _was_ at the centre of this, but not as the Doctor, as the Ripper. 

 _His_ Ripper. 

Oh, god, how could he not have seen?

The man who Will had long thought epitomised the worst in the world; who spoke of horrors and darkness; who had long been the only one Will thought who could occupy the role of his Soulmate... it was Hannibal. Things suddenly began to slot into place. The organs, the dinner parties, his possessiveness, his tempered rage and the sex - wild and claiming - it was all so obvious. Surgeon to psychiatrist; injects himself into the investigation; white male; confident; powerful.  **He fit the profile.**

**He was the Ripper.**

And Francis was going to kill him.

They were still talking, exchanging threats and...  _compliments_?...but Will had tuned out. He had to make a decision. He could do nothing, let things proceed and call Jack. It would allow the Mutilator to kill the Ripper but  _Francis_  would be behind bars. He could jump in, save Hannibal and kill the Mutilator, then arrest his Soulmate for being a serial killing cannibal. Or he could accept what he was, what Hannibal was, what they were  _together._

He didn't know what to do, or how to do it, but there was one thing he couldn't allow to happen: Hannibal couldn't die. Nothing in the world could change Will’s mind on that… 

Will dragged himself to his feet and moved forward slowly. The room, coming into sharp contrast as he crept closer to the light, was like a medieval dungeon with heavy metal chains, racks and cages. There were plastic sheets hanging from hooks in the ceiling and a general smell of bleach and blood spoke a great deal about what had happened there. The drains embedded in the cold concrete made Will shiver, but nothing more than the sight of bone saws and surgical tables pushed to the side of the room. He'd let Hannibal ravish him two stories away from the site of mass murder. 

He felt dizzy…

…he felt aroused…

he felt sick.

He lingered in the shadows in the blind-spot of the man standing before a thoroughly bound and incapacitated Hannibal, monologuing like a villain in a superhero movie. There was a slight flare of Hannibal's nostrils before his eyes flickered slightly over towards Will for the briefest of moments before returning to Francis. He knew  _someone_  was there. Will wondered if he knew who. He wet his lips and inched forward slightly. 

There was no mistaking him for anyone else now and the wide, unbridled panic that carved itself into Hannibal's features must have been more obvious than a scream to his captor because he began to turn before Will had even made it half way towards him. It didn't, however, stop the profiler from plunging a six inch knife into the soft flesh of his side with every ounce of strength he had. 

The roar was all animal as the man staggered back, eyes black with rage, as he turned on Will. "Will, no, he has a gun," Hannibal cried, but the blue-eyed man was already lurching forward again, drawing the other blade from his waistband and brandishing it threateningly, ignoring the desperate pleading of his Soulmate. 

And then the Mutilator turned, snarled again, and leapt at him. 

 

* * * 

 

Hannibal remembered every instance in his life when he felt frightened. It was such an uncommon occurrence that it never took long. His parents and Mischa always occupied the top spots because he had never known fear, not pain, like the moment he lost them. Being discovered as Il Monstro was perhaps close too because he had been chased from his favourite place in the world and he feared he'd never be able to return, nor to find another place to call home. But when Will, soaked to the bone in crimson, stepped from the shadows in his cellar, Hannibal experience true fear: paralysing, writhing, sickening fear. 

Because he could not live without Will.

Suddenly the horror of Will seeing just who he was blurred and shifted into nothing. It was inconsequential, a blip in his life history and the walls of his cellar faded. There was only the man he had wanted for so long against a monster that several months ago he would have invited the challenge. Francis, with his black wings, black heart and eager, desperation to please him had been warped into the need to _change him_. It was have been interesting and Hannibal, then, would have smirked, curious to see how events would have transpired. But with Will occupying their space too, curiosity bled itself dry and panic rose in its place.

He was pulling violently against the bonds that held him as he watched the Great Red Dragon dive at his Soulmate, snapping his own bones to free himself and pitching forward when he was finally unchained. He barely even hesitated, lurching forwards and knocking Francis to the ground, hands slipping through the blood coating his front. His wrist burned suddenly, harsh and painful, before.

 _White_.

Francis took his distraction to counter and suddenly they were grappling on the cold floor like teenagers in a play fight. It looked pathetic, when in reality it was dirty, ugly and underhanded. Fingers stabbed themselves into eyes, tugged at the open wounds on each other’s skin, nails clawed at their faces, but somehow Hannibal ended up pinned down, staring up at the Dragon as he brandished a knife at him and grunted through the blood with the effort.

A pitiful whine and a body shoved Francis just enough for his grip to slip. Hannibal snarled, turned and struck out, hand batting away the blade and flipping them, sinking his fingers deep into the man’s eyes and not stopping until he felt them both burst with the pressure.

The screaming began in earnest then.

A glance to his left saw his darling boy, his wonderful curly haired beauty, brandishing the knife, fear in his gaze.

“You know,” Hannibal rasped. There was no real need for a conformation, it was written on his beloved’s face. So instead, he paused, took in a breath and said calmly. “Give me the knife, Will.”

_One breath._

_Two._

_Three._

Then,

“Will you kill him?” Quiet, broken.

Hannibal didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

 _A pause_.

Will edged forward, frowned once and then glanced down at his wrist before something flickered across his face and he looked up.

He offered the blade handle first.

Hannibal felt his chest explode with delight as he took the weapon and with one smooth swoop, ended the life of the Great Red Dragon.

“Give me your wrist,” Will said after the sudden, deafening had rung out for a few moments. Hannibal frowned but obliged, unsteadily clambering to his feet and sticking out his wrist. Both were barely standing and so both swayed when Will took it. “Your antlers are white too,” he whispered.

“…Too?”

“Yes,” he choked, half a sob building in his chest.

Another moment. Then: “White stags are rare and illusive. In many cultures, they are not to be hunted, for they are too prized. In others, they can never be captured.”

Will looked up. Hannibal knew his darling boy, with all that twisted darkness and potential curling under his skin could see the request, could see the eager desperate need that burned in his blood. His blue-eyed profiler gritted his teeth as his nails dug into Hannibal’s soft flesh. “I thought you were different, that it was _me_ ,” he confessed.

“It was,” Hannibal replied, “and I am. We both are. Our monsters are reflections of each other, don’t you think?”  

Will didn’t deny it, nor did he stop Hannibal when he pulled him into his arms, practically vibrating with relief at having the younger man safe inside his embrace. Instead he barked out a sad sort of chuckle. “I always knew, I think,” he whispered, almost to himself, “I just hoped I was wrong.”

“And now?”

“You changed me,” he replied. “I can’t fight it anymore, not now I – now I…” he trailed off. But Hannibal knew.

He knew.

“And you have changed me,” he whispered, breath curling against his Soulmate’s ear as he studied his changed mark, “and it seems Fate herself agrees with me.”


	11. stag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you, thank you, thank you guys, 
> 
> \- R.

"I did not run away with you to Argentina for this, Hannibal," Will groused, staring at his lover petulantly. 

"We didn't run away at all, my love," he returned, eyes not wavering "but rather simply  _left_."

"Correction," Will sassed, "we left. Although we  _left_ because there were dead people in your basement, a warrant out for your arrest and every serial killer kept trying to kill us..."

Hannibal did look over then and his expression was less than impressed. "Two serial killers, not  _every_ serial killer." Will only huffed in reply, shaking his head when his Soulmate's focus shifted again. 

"Hannibal," he tried again, before instead sighing and standing, dropping notes on the table for their lunch and preparing to leave. 

"Will?" the European asked, finally giving him his full attention. 

"You can sit and stare at the rude man who told us that men shouldn't be Soulmates," he said, pushing his sunglasses up his nose, "or you can come home and we can screw until you no longer remember anything he said..." It was enough to pull a smile from the usually composed European. Will held out his hand - his mark on full display. The ghost of a smile bloomed into something bright and brilliant then at the sight of it. 

Still white. 

But not the same. 

Hannibal had been right about Fate, Will thought, and how they'd changed each other, intrinsically, on every level. Sometime after the deaths and sometime during the disposals of both halves of the Mark Mutilator, the pair had experienced the most painful burning sensation that carved its way up their wrists and left in its wake the sight of something extraordinary: a new mark. Hannibal, of course, had numerous theories, but Will only had one: they were never to know themselves as well as they would know themselves when with each other. Will knew then just how much he couldn't leave, or live without, Hannibal and so went with the only option still open to him: _love_ Hannibal, _be_ with him,  _stay uncaught_ with him. The mark made everything simple, then. The white antlers had grown in size, stretching almost far enough to encircle their wrist. The barbed wire was gone and in its place was the body of a beautiful stag, made entirely of feathers and flowers, all in the pure, ghostly white that had spooked them only hours earlier. It was eerie, but beautiful... and their colleagues had thought so too. Bev had smiled at their mark, remarking at how it suit them both, before lamenting at their moving away to 'see the world together'. Alana hadn't said a word, only swallowed heavily, turned on her heel and walked away. Although Will understood - if he had what remained of her tattered pride, he would have reacted in much the same way. Jack, of course, offered civil congratulations, but nothing further in terms of apology. He attempted to dissuade Will from going, as both had expected, and Hannibal promptly told him to fuck off, which no one but Will expected. So the pair, new marks in tow, had packed up and left, taking dogs, some books and relocated.

Will had never been happier. 

Until their lunch had been rudely interrupted by a homophobic shit with the worst shirt and short combination Will had ever seen.

"Or," Hannibal countered, rising smoothly and letting his arms loop around Will's waist, "I could fuck you until you can't walk, do a little hunting and then we could have some dinner, umm?" He pressed a kiss to Will's neck. 

"Free range?" Will laughed, blood heading south. 

"It is always best to cook with the freshest ingredients, my love," Hannibal chuckled in reply. 

The ex-profiler grinned before nodding once. "Why not? I'm hankering after braised tongue and I'll never say no to this," he added, grinding back against Hannibal who was more than just a little on board if the stiff length trapped in his chinos was any indication.

The doctor laughed once, tightening his grip, possessive and unyielding.

"Oh, my darling boy," he murmured, voice full of promise, "as you wish," he breathed, eyes flickering over to their prey, "as you wish." 


End file.
